


Am I thus Conquered?

by TheCrownprincessBride



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, BAMF Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Eventual Happy Ending, Feelings Realization, Feral Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Fix-It of Sorts, Forced Marriage, Idiots in Love, Inspired by a The Amazing Devil Song, Multi, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Slow Burn, Threats of Violence, Timeline What Timeline, Whipping, no beta we die like witchers, or well threats thereof
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-08
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:27:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 52,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24613759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCrownprincessBride/pseuds/TheCrownprincessBride
Summary: If Jaskier had wanted to keep is identity as Viscount de Lettenhove secret, he probably shouldn’t have bragged about it to gain favour with the beautiful Countess de Stael. But now it's too late. He's held captive at King Vizimir's court, being forced to honour the marriage agreement his father signed 17 years ago.Anybody wants to guess who is being used as leverage?Geralt of Rivia.Who else?It seems the shit just keeps piling up.~~~How was Geralt supposed to know that contract on the archgriffing wasn't legit?Now he finds himself captured by a power-mad king who wants his personal Witcher-Assassin, thinking he'll accomplish that by holding Geralt's former travel companion/bard... um, friend? ... hostage.He seems to have forgotten that trying to control a Witcher is like trying to control the storm.It can only end badly.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, sort of past relationship
Comments: 210
Kudos: 362
Collections: Geralt is Sorry





	1. Wine and Misery

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own The Witcher. Princess Ana is mine, though.^^  
> ~~~  
> Welcome to my second fic in this universe!  
> (Am I obessed? - Me? Rubbish! It's totally normal to listen to the Neflix soundtrack every day for three weeks.) 
> 
> I'm not a native and I don't have a beta, so please excuse any mistakes.  
> As a side note, I've never written in present tense before, and I'm still trying to find my footing. So the tenses might be a bit of a mess. I'm very sorry.
> 
> The song Jaskier writes is adapted from Halestorm - I miss the misery.
> 
> About the timeline:  
> Let’s pretend Jaskier was younger when he finished his studies (16 - boy genius) and started travelling. His father made the marriage agreement when Jaskier was 13, so he's 30 now. 
> 
> The title is taken from Lady Mary Wroth's poem "Sonnet 16".

The last notes of “Her sweet kiss” ring through the large banquet hall filled to the brim with brightly-clothed nobles. Jaskier bows to the audience with flourish and they clap enthusiastically.

The evening is late, and after rounds and rounds of joyful dance music, they asked for his newest song – which is more maudlin than the nobles expected, but Jaskier couldn’t care less. It’s the only song he’d finished in the last weeks. Half-written lyrics and tunes fill the notebook he carries around just for this purpose.

With a false cheeriness, he excuses himself, and the nobles turn back to each other. Jaskier’s voice is already a little hoarse, but it’s a good hoarseness that comes from doing something he loves – not from crying until falling asleep. Not that he’s ever done that. Certainly not after Geralt left him on the mountain. Nope.

And the phantom pain in his chest has absolutely nothing to do with what Geralt has said. He’s just very caught up in the emotion of the song – that’s what good bards do, they _feel_ their songs. That’s all there is to it.

It has nothing to do with missing the Witcher – because Jaskier _doesn’t_.

While the bard walks over to the drinks, he lets his gaze wander over King Vizimir’s banquet hall, which suddenly looks awfully like Cintra. He half-expects to see a brooding Witcher at the high table next to the Queen. But that can’t be –

Jaskier blinks, focusing his gaze. The man there is not Geralt – _of course_ not. His hair is just white because he’s old. He looks nothing Geralt.

The Witcher’s ghost follows him everywhere, always at the corner of his eyes, but when Jaskier turns to look for him, his absence hits him like a punch to the gut. He sees him even here – especially here – surrounded by nobles and falseness and fake smiles.

Fuck, Jaskier misses him –

No, he doesn’t –

He does.

Jaskier misses his brooding, heavy, safe presence. He misses the quirk of his lips when he pretends to be annoyed. He misses the smell of horse and leather and Geralt. Fuck, he even misses the insults.

Song lyrics swim into his head, and he reaches for the thin booklet that fits perfectly in his lute case.

I _miss the bad things, the way you hate me  
I miss the screamin‘, the way that you blame me  
I miss the monster hunts, leave me a mess   
I miss the feeling of pains in my chest  
Miss the grilled rabbits when it's your fault  
I miss the late nights, don’t miss you at all.  
  
I like the kick in the face  
And the things you do to me  
I love the way that it hurts  
I don’t miss you, I miss the misery._

Jaskier pauses because he feels watched. He glances up and King Vizimir is looking right at him. He’s startled to find something like… calculation in his eyes. The king smiles a fake smile when he notices Jaskier’s gaze, then turns to his daughter, Princess Ana.

A shiver flows down his spine. A warning.

Maybe it’s the after-effects of the last time Jaskier played at a royal court. Or maybe it’s some lingering nervousness, some form of stage fright – Jaskier hasn’t performed for such a large audience since… well, since the mountain. His new songs are not the crowd-pleasers he normally writes.

Quickly, he focuses back on the lyrics, skimming what he’s written. Gods, if this isn’t _pathetic_! He makes it sound like an abusive relationship, which it wasn’t.

He rips the piece of paper out of the booklet and crumples it.

He really needs to get over this.

Someone offers the bard a cup of wine, and he takes it without thinking. The wine is good. Sweet, the way Jaskier likes it. Geralt prefers ale. Not that Jaskier cares about what Geralt likes.

Why do these thoughts always appear unbidden in his mind?

Jaskier empties the cup and looks back at the king. He’s watching him again, and the little hairs on his neck rise. Geralt has taught him to listen to his gut instinct, and his instinct is telling him that there’s something off about the king. The way he watches Jaskier like a hawk but quickly turns away when Jaskier meets his eyes.

Could it be something to do with Geralt?

Jaskier vehemently shakes his head to chase away the thought. Not everything in his life revolves around a certain Witcher.

That leaves one other conclusion. The king knows who he is.

The Viscount de Lettenhove disappeared over a decade ago. Jaskier writes the occasional letter to his brother to assure him that he’s still alive and well, but he doesn’t use the weight of his title inside Redania – or outside, if he can help it. He prefers to be Jaskier, the bard, not Julian, the Viscount. Even the university doesn’t know about his birthright. The de Lettenhove’s have never been terribly important in the grand scheme of things, so nobody had cared too much about him disappearing.

Well, anyway – even if the King knows that he’s one of his subjects, it doesn’t change anything, does it?

It’s probably something else entirely.

Jaskier refills his cup, hoping the alcohol might chase away the uneasy feeling in his stomach. But his mind is determined to solve this puzzle. Automatically, he thinks back on how the invitation to play here has reached him.

He was back at Oxenfurt, having decided not to travel any further this year. (Certainly not, because he was hiding, because he feared meeting a certain Witcher. No, he’d simply resolved to focus on his classes.)

Actually… the King of Redania _has_ been strangely insistent that he’d come and play at court. He offered an obscenely amount of money to Jaskier – and to the University of Oxenfurt. The dean told him in very clear terms that, if Jaskier didn’t go, his professorship would come to an end.

Jaskier was so used to this mixture of bribery and blackmail that, back then, he didn’t question the king’s motives. Maybe he should have.

Suddenly, King Vizimir stands up and the room falls silent.

The king is a tall man, and he certainly knows how to use his body language to appear powerful. (Nothing compared to a certain Witcher, but impressive for a human.) His expensive blue cloak falls like waves of midnight sky over his shoulders and pools at his feet, the ermine fur at his shoulders marking his kingship.

“Before Master Jaskier will honour us with a final song, I have organised some last bit of evening entertainment,” his voice booms through the hall, and Jaskier doesn’t like the grin on the king’s face at all. “Guards.”

He gestures towards the door, and everybody turns around expectantly. A few moments later, the large double doors with gold marquetry are pushed open. A gasp echoes through the room.

A large, muscular man enters with chains around his wrists and feet that clink with every step he makes, guards accompanying his impressive figure. The white colour of his hair is unmistakable, and Jaskier feels all blood leaving his face.

Geralt of fucking Rivia.

The Witcher’s chest is bare, his many scars proudly on display; only his wolf medallion lies untouched underneath his collarbones. His moonlight hair is clean and without tangles, and his trousers are new. Even the chains are shiny.

He looks like a piece of jewellery, polished for his presentation at court.

It’s utterly disgusting.

Still, Jaskier’s heart misses a beat with how handsome he looks with that feral glare in his cat-eyes, his head lifted proudly as if he wasn’t held captive. He looks untouchable and oh so very dangerous that the nobles take a step back.

Geralt’s golden eyes find Jaskier in an instant, and something changes in his expression, but Jaskier is too overwhelmed to identify it.

This is not how he expected to meet the Witcher again – if they ever met again.

He thought they might stumble over each other in an inn or on the road, Geralt on his way to a hunt and Jaskier simply travelling. Would the Witcher have acknowledged him? Or would they both have pretended their years of travelling never happened?

The sinking feeling in Jaskier’s stomach tells him that he’s again shovelling shit in Geralt’s direction – because it’s certainly no accident that Jaskier and the Witcher are here together. It doesn’t matter that Jaskier didn’t do it on purpose – that hadn’t mattered before, after all.

The only question is, how will Jaskier manage to get the Witcher _out_ of the pile of shit?

“May I present, the famous White Wolf. Geralt of Rivia,” the king announces, but Jaskier can’t look away from the fierce golden eyes. It feels like staring into sunlight, blinding and painful on the one hand, but warm and summery on the other hand.

He wants to say something to Geralt so badly, to apologise, to say it’s all right, but the expression on Geralt’s face stops him.

At the king’s words, Geralt has slightly raised his upper lip in a growl that would normally send humans running, but the king doesn’t even flinch. The chains ruin the effect a little, Jaskier has to admit.

How did Vizimir manage to capture a _Witcher_? There had to a mage involved! And for what purpose?

The king speaks, “How about you sing a song for your friend, Master Jaskier? You made the White Wolf famous after all.”

Jaskier flinches. So the king wants to humiliate the Witcher and probably show off his power. The bard knows he has no choice but to obey, so he steps back on stage, his fingers trembling slightly. He tries to silently communicate to Geralt that this isn’t his fault, that he didn’t know this was going to happen, and that he doesn’t know what to do.

“Which song would please your majesty?” he asks, using all his training to keep his voice from shaking.

Vizimir’s smile widens. “The first one you’ve ever wrote about him, bard.”

“Certainly, your majesty.” Jaskier bows, but it feels stiff and awkward. His fingers find the first chords automatically, and he smiles apologetically at Geralt when he starts the first verse. He knows Geralt hates the song.

Jaskier’s voice sounds strangely flat in his ears and his smile is so fake that it hurts his cheek muscles. Geralt just looks at him, one eyebrow slightly raised, as if amused. His nonchalance helps Jaskier to get through the first verse, but when he reaches the chorus, one of the young nobles stands on his seat and cries, “I don’t have a coin, Witcher, but I can offer a tomato.”

Jaskier’s voice falters a little when the red fruit sails though the air, but Geralt sidesteps it so easily that it looks like he barely moved. The noble, however, doesn’t enjoy being embarrassed for his aim, grabbing the next fruit.

Jaskier is momentarily thrown back to his first encounter with the Witcher when people had thrown bread at _him_.

The guards quickly step away to not be hit by food. The nobles certainly seem to appreciate the young man’s idea, and more and more food is thrown at Geralt. Laughter ebbs through the crowd when the first item hit its target, and the White Wolf snarls. The soldiers limit his movements by holding halberds in his direction, and the heavy chain that connects his feet with his wrist is not long enough for Geralt to even lift his arms to protect his face.

“No!” Jaskier screams as an apple hits the Witcher in the head, and his lute makes a discordant sound. “Stop it!”

He jumps from the stage, not caring about the guards that are too surprised to stop him, and positions himself in front of the Witcher, his arms spread. “How dare you attack an unarmed, shackled man?”

The nobles pause in mid-throw, their arms raised.

“What are you doing?” Geralt growls between clenched teeth, and Jaskier flinches from the anger in his voice. Of course, the Witcher wouldn’t appreciate his attempt to help him. He never did.

“Step aside, bard,” the king orders, “Do you not know that this is not a man but a _mutant_.”

Jaskier clenches his fists, the halberds dangerously close to his chest, but he doesn’t move. “Leave him alone.”

“Grab him,” the king bellows, and the soldiers are on him in a second.

“No, this is – this is outrageous. How dare you treat me like a – unhand me right now!” he yells but that earns him only laughter from the present nobles.

“Jaskier,” he hears Geralt call, and it sounds almost desperate, but then large oak doors close behind the bard and all sound is muffled. The soldiers twist his arms behind his back, so all struggling is useless, and take the lute from him.

“Don’t you dare touch it,” he threatens as the man ogles it curiously. They’d brought him into a small private room next to the big hall. There’s a bowl with fruits on the table, and a chair by the window.

A moment later, the king enters. For a second, he can hear the cheer of the crowd, and rage pools in his gut. If they’re hurting Geralt…

“Stop scowling. It doesn’t suit you, Viscount,” the king says coldly, and it takes a second for Jaskier to register the words.

_Viscount_.

Fuck.

“I don’t know what your majesty is talking about,” Jaskier replies smoothly, practised at lying about his identity.

“Oh, please, Julian.” The king approaches him slowly. “You can drop the act. I know exactly who you are. Did you think I’d forget the contract made with your father?”

Jaskier feels like he walked down a staircase in the dark and suddenly missed a step – this lurching feeling in his stomach, his lungs barely able take in air.

“Contract,” he chokes out, and the king rolls his eyes.

“Playing dumb, are we?”

He’s so close now that Jaskier can smell the expensive perfume, and it makes him feel sick.

“You are to marry my daughter, Princess Ana, as agreed by contract seventeen years ago. She’s of age now, and since your father is no longer alive to remind you of your duty –”

“My duty!”Jaskier snarls, struggling against the soldiers’ hold. “I gave up my titles.”

“Oh, but you haven’t, have you? The Countess de Stael speaks so highly of you.”

Jaskier grits his teeth. Okay, _sometimes_ he’s used his heritage to make an impression on a beautiful lady, but…

“That’s what I thought. You can’t be a count only when it suits you, Julian. It is not a choice,” the king says, brushing an invisible speck of dust from his dark blue doublet. “As I said, you will marry Princess Ana, go back to your estate that you have neglected for far too long, and serve your king and kingdom as you ought to.”

That contract! Jaskier had in fact forgotten about it, or he’d maybe have questioned the King of Redania’s interest in him.

The marriage agreement had been his father’s last attempt to control him. To marry into the king’s family is prestigious, and the late Viscount had been a trusted advisor of Vizimir. The attempt had back-fired in so far that it’d only cemented Jaskier’s decision to study the Seven Liberal Arts and become a bard.

His younger brother is much better suited to be the Viscount. He enjoys managing the estate, always the perfect son, the son Jaskier couldn’t be. But the law in Redania forbids that the title goes to the second born (unless the first born is dead, and Jaskier quite enjoys living, thank you very much).

He’d tried to solve the issue by disappearing and adopting a new identity – which worked brilliantly, absolutely brilliantly.

So, here they are.

Suddenly, everything slots into place. The offer to play here and the presence of the Witcher. Half the Continent knows how much he likes Geralt – not loves, certainly not loves. Because Jaskier wouldn’t be so pathetic as to love someone who treats him as a barely tolerated travel companion at best and a target for his frustrations at worst.

The Witcher is leverage.

“You can’t…” he stutters, “I won’t…”

The king’s eyes narrow dangerously. “I _can_ and you _will_ , Viscount.” He nods at the guard who’s holding his lute. “This is very easy, my dear Julian. You will go out there and propose to my daughter. I will accept, and you will wed her in two days time. Everything is already prepared. If you hold your word, I will let the Witcher go. If not…”

The soldier slowly tightens one of the strings, and Jaskier’s heart stops. The string gives a moaning sound that tears at his bones and finally _snaps_. The noise cuts like knives into Jaskier, and he chokes back a sob.

They hurt his lute, his precious Elven lute. How dare they…!

“I know a Witcher is not quite as breakable but just as disposable,” the king says condescendingly.

Another string snaps and Jaskier whimpers with the pain of it. He tries to struggle against the two men holding him, but their grip is like an iron vice around his arms. He wishes they’d hurt him, punch him – he could take it. But his lute, his poor helpless lute, his lifeblood, his everything.

“And after the frankly embarrassing display in the hall, I have no doubt you don’t wish for him to suffer.”

“Please,” Jaskier begs when another string is cruelly broken, and the king holds up his hand. The soldier pauses.

Jaskier feels tears running down his face, but he doesn’t care. Of course, he doesn’t wish for Geralt to suffer. He’d already made him suffer too much.

Three days. Three days Jaskier had waited at the inn on the foot of the mountain, but the Witcher hadn’t come. And finally, Jaskier was forced to realise that this time Geralt had _meant_ it. That this was actually _the end_.

The end of a wonderful… well, obviously one-sided friendship.

Here is Jaskier’s chance to make up for all the hurt he’s caused Geralt. At least, he won’t be the reason for more pain. That’s the least Jaskier can do.

There’s really no choice in it.

Once the Witcher is free, Jaskier will think about a way to escape, but for now, he has to play the game.

His lute gives another distressing sound that makes Jaskier’s blood boil, and his stomach clench, and his heart ache.

“I’ll do it,” he says quickly, but the string snaps anyway, the sound as painful as forks screeching over a plate, as razors on skin, and he gasps. “ _Please_ …”

“I knew you’d come to your senses,” the king says, placing a patronising hand on his shoulder. Jaskier’s skin crawls where the man touches him, and he fights the urge to lash out. Attacking the King of Redania would certainly not solve his situation.

The triumphant smile on Vizimir’s face makes him want to vomit. He’s never felt this helpless before, not even when the Elves abducted them – because then, Geralt had been at his side.

Now, the Witcher probably hates his gut. Perhaps he even feels vindicated – because this situation is definitely Jaskier’s fault.

Destiny’s a bitch.

“You won’t need the lute anymore, will you?” the king asks sweetly, and the soldier draws his hand back.

“No!” Jaskier screams as the lute’s beautiful body collides with the wall. The wood breaks with a sickening sound, splinters shooting through the air, and Jaskier feels his heart break. “No,” he wails, half-mad with grief and rage born out of helplessness.

But they don’t care. The man smashes – _mutilates, annihilates, slaughters_ … _murders_ – his lute until only tiny broken pieces are left; then he throws them unceremoniously into the fire.

And Jaskier has to watch as one of the most precious things in his life goes up in flames, and his freedom with it.

***

When Jaskier leaves the chamber he feels like he’s moving under water. Everything is very far away, the sounds muffled, his limbs heavy.

Geralt is kneeling on the floor, a few cuts on his chest as if he tried fighting the guards, but it’s not enough to make Jaskier snap out of it.

His lute is dead.

He will never be a bard again.

He will never be free again.

Geralt will hate him forever.

The princess will be chained to a man who could never love her just because of the circumstances that brought them together.

_His lute is dead_.

“Jaskier,” Geralt murmurs as he walks past, but Jaskier doesn’t allow himself to react. If he falters now, he might not find the courage again to do what needs to be done.

His body moves on autopilot, and he has no idea where the words come from when he kneels in front of the high table, proposing to Princess Ana. He can’t hear anything over the blood rushing in his ears, but it doesn’t matter.

People clap him on the back, and the king lifts his cup to toast, and the princess smiles a bitter lemon-smile. Geralt’s golden eyes pierce him, and he clings to his gaze until the Witcher is dragged out.

Then, he empties his cup of wine, drinking himself into oblivion.

***

Jaskier regains consciousness in layers. First, he becomes aware of the massive headache that feels like centaurs are dancing on his brain; then, he feels the cold that seeps from the hard floor into his bones; finally, he becomes aware of the soreness of his throat, as if he’d screamed himself hoarse.

He must’ve partied hard last night to have fallen asleep on the floor, he muses.

His lashes stick together, and it’s almost painful to open his eyes. Thankfully, the room isn’t very bright. Actually, it’s tinted in a purple twilight that hides the deep corners in blackness. Jaskier is lying on a stone floor that is way too uncomfortable, but his body denies his wish to move. His limbs seem to weigh a ton. His tongue feels like sandpaper, and lifting his head seems too much of an effort for now.

“Jaskier?” a quiet voice asks, and suddenly, his body _can_ move.

Jaskier jolts upright, regretting it at the same moment. His head spins violently, and he doubles over, retching.

Fuck. How much did he drink last night?

He hears a tinkling, metallic sound, and he needs a moment to understand its source. (And what exactly does it say about him that he recognises it so easily?) Wait… _chains_?

Where the hell is he?

When his stomach calms down, he slumps back against the wall, trying to make sense of everything. Darkness, wet stone walls, iron bars, a small barred window. It looks like he is in a cell… with Geralt of Rivia. The Witcher’s feet are shackled, a chain attached to the wall; the chain that ties his hands is anchored in the floor and so short that Geralt has no choice but to kneel. The position hurts Jaskier just by looking at it.

Jaskier blinks, then blinks again, but the image stays the same.

Fuck.

Slowly, memories tickle into his brain, painful, terrible memories, and he closes his eyes.

_Fuck_.

“Jask?” Geralt asks again, and his soft voice is more than Jaskier can bear. Why isn’t the Witcher angry? He should be angry. “Did they hurt you?”

Jaskier opens his eyes again and looks straight into golden abysses. For a second, he loses himself in that warm gaze; for a second, the dragon hunt never happened; for a second, the world is all right.

But then, reality kicks in. Geralt asked him a question, and he should answer. He opens his mouth to give a cheerful, quick-witted reply, but he just doesn’t have the strength.

“They broke my lute,” he whispers barely audible, and the way he says it, it’s clear that they might as well have broken all his bones.

Geralt makes a strangled noise, something between a snarl and gasp.

“Don’t worry. You’ll be out of here in no time. Two days and you’ll be rid of my company again,” Jaskier adds, forcing a fake smile on his face, even though he’d rather cry.

Geralt’s gaze turns sharp. “Why are you saying that?”

“Did you not hear me yesterday – or was it already today?” He begins to shake his head, but realises that’s a bad idea in time. “I guess my proposal was shit. But I dare you to make a forced proposal on no notice, just after…” His voice breaks, and he needs a minute to collect his thoughts again.

Then it hits him.

“If it weren’t for my songs, you wouldn’t be here,” Jaskier chokes out and instantly covers his stupid mouth with his hand. If the bard hadn’t so stupidly proclaimed their friendship all over the country, then they couldn’t have used Geralt against him.

Geralt snarls, and there’s the anger he expected.

“I’m sorry, Geralt,” he says quickly, his hands held up in a defensive move as if he expects Geralt to hit him. Not that he would. Not that he _could,_ being chained to the floor and all.

Jaskier can fix this, _has_ fixed this. “Don’t worry, I’ll be marrying the princess soon, and then he’ll let you go,” he explains hastily.

“The king threatened… _me_?” Geralt sounds like somebody emptied a bucket full of ice water over his head. In all honesty, that might be a good idea. There’s still food clinging to his hair and body.

Jaskier waves his hand in a manner that says, _obviously_. “Why else would you be here?”

“Hm,” Geralt grunts, and after a moment, “Why did you do it?”

Jaskier frowns. “Why I proposed? Well, I didn’t have much choice, did I? I know you don’t think we’re friends, but I… do you think me that heartless that I could let you be _tortured_ …” His voice breaks again, and he hates himself for it. He’s always thought Geralt knows how he feels, he proclaimed it often enough. Geralt hurt him, sure, but… that was his own fault anyway.

Jaskier knows he’s too loud, too happy, too fickle. He shouldn’t have pushed.

But Jaskier’s not _cruel_. He’d still defend the Witcher to his last breath because it’s the fucking right thing to do.

“It’s just pain, Jaskier,” the Witcher replies in a voice too level to be natural.

“Just p–” Jaskier throws his hands up in exasperation. Something in him breaks a little at the thought that Geralt considers torture ‘just pain’. He knows the Witcher suffered, but how much exactly to merely shrug at the mention of _torture_? “I can’t believe you. _You_ can perhaps deal with pain, but _I_ can’t.”

Geralt frowns at him in a way that tells Jaskier he’s trying to parse his words but doesn’t understand them.

Jaskier leans his head back, desperately wishing for something to drink (water, for a change, not ale). His head pounds, his throat hurts, his heart aches.

“I’m sorry, Jaskier,” Geralt says out of the blue, and Jaskier’s head snaps back up.

“What?” he asks eloquently.

Geralt clenches his teeth, looking away, as if it had physically hurt to say these words. What is the Witcher apologising for? For thinking torture merely an inconvenience? Or that Jaskier is forced to marry because of him? Or does he refer to his words at the mountain?

All of that? None?

“You should not be chained,” Geralt finally mutters, and Jaskier chuckles dryly.

“Says the pot to the kettle. Even though you’re physically chained and I… whatever.” He sighs, rubbing his brow. “I’m sorry you have to be here. I’m sorry you’re being used against me, pulled into the middle of things again. I’m sorry this happened… fuck, I’m so sorry I met you.”

Hurt flashes over Geralt’s face so quickly that Jaskier can’t be sure he’s actually seen it. Then, he realises how his words might have sounded.

“That’s not what I… do you think I mean… I _don’t_ regret _travelling_ with you, darling. Never. Even if they break my hands,” he says way too quickly, words stumbling over each other, and he leans forward. “I mean… I’m sorry for… _everything_. Fuck. I’m supposed to be good with words.”

“Jask…” Geralt begins, but the bard doesn’t want to hear it.

“You want me to spell it out?” he hisses. “I’m sorry I made things worse for you, even though I tried to make them better. I’m sorry I’m superficial, and colourful, and noisy, and complaining all the time, and getting into trouble… I’m _not_ sorry I composed these songs about you, even though they brought me here. I’m _not_ sorry for the time I spent with you, for the adventures you gave me because it looks like they’re the last ones I’ll ever have.” Tears burn in his eyes and he wipes them away clumsily.

“Guess, your wish comes true, Geralt.” He laughs shakily. “Two days and I’ll be taken off your hands.” His voice is bitterer than intended, but it’s too late to take them back.

They hang in the silence between them, ugly and dark.

Geralt blinks. His chains rattle as he tries to move and the metal digs painfully into his wrists. “You know I didn’t mean them,” he says finally. He sounds defeated, as if Jaskier’s words had been swords, his apology an attack.

Jaskier half-sobs-half-laughs. Of course, it’d take Geralt to be chained up with him to say something like this. He doesn’t doubt it’s a lie, though. Soon, the Witcher would vanish from Jaskier’s life forever, and he’s too good a person to not try to leave on good terms, to make up for the hurt he caused.

“I know the words were said in anger,” he admits quietly – which is not a lie – sniffling and wiping his eyes with the back of his hands. “But that doesn’t make them… well, and you didn’t come back… you just left me there.”

“I know.”

Jaskier tastes salt on his lips, and the wetness does nothing to reduce his thirst. Somehow, Geralt’s words don’t make him feel better. He just feels… empty. “You… it hurt, Geralt. It fucking hurt.”

“I know.” The Witcher hangs his head. “I’m sorry, Jaskier.”

He so badly wants to make a joke about the Witcher apologising twice in this conversation, but he can’t. He just can’t. He knows Geralt is only apologising because this is the last time they’ll see each other. It does nothing to fill the emptiness inside him.

“Please, don’t say that,” he whispers.

He can’t bear the lie – but, _is_ it a lie? Geralt would be sorry for hurting him. But it still feels wrong to force this apology out of him, just because of the situation they found themselves in.

He wants to turn back time so desperately.

He wants to walk on a dusty road beside a chestnut horse, a song on his lips.

He wants to sleep next to the heat of the Witcher, the stars above.

He’d give anything to try again, to be a quieter travel companion, to be useful, to deserve Geralt’s friendship.

But he never would.

Jaskier draws his knees in and hugs himself. It still hurts. Why did the mountain have to be the end? Why did he have to be so arrogant to think the King of Redania wouldn’t know who he was? Why did it have to be his fucking fault again that Geralt got hurt?

“What do you want me to say?” Geralt asks, his voice strangely fragile, but Jaskier doesn’t have the strength to answer or lift his head to look at the Witcher.

He can’t do anything but cry.


	2. Friend or Enemy?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt broods... a lot, basically. 
> 
> Also, Princess Ana enters the stage, and the two friends have to decide if she's a friend or an enemy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so, so much for the many kudos and the lovely comments! :) Keep them going. I love to hear what you think!

Geralt watches the bard intently, flinching with every sob he doesn’t quiet manage to stifle. His bright orange doublet is dirty, and the smell of wine and misery clings to him like a wet blanket. He only sits half a metre away, but it might as well be at the other side of the continent.

The chains don’t allow any leeway, and as much as Geralt wants to touch, to comfort, he _can’t_.

But they’re good now. Geralt apologised. Jaskier said he understood. They are fine – right?

What kind of idiot Witcher is he anyway to be captured by one fucking mage and a few soldiers? In all fairness, he couldn’t have known the contract for the archgriffin wasn’t legit. Still… Vesemir would have his head.

And now, Geralt is doing exactly what he never wanted to do – he’s endangering Jaskier.

He doesn’t understand why the stupid bard is so determined to sacrifice himself for Geralt. The Witcher deserves the pain of torture for the pain he caused Jaskier and Yennefer. He betrayed the only woman who’d ever made him feel loved, and chased away the only friend who would’ve never left him.

This would be his way of apologising for abandoning the bard.

There’s no question in his mind of taking any kind of pain without complaining – he’s had worse, he _deserves_ worse – if it’d mean he could save Jaskier. Songbirds need to remain free.

The Witcher had been so afraid to damn his friend to the life on the Path that he hadn’t realised that Jaskier had _chosen_ to travel with him. And now the idiot chose the cage to save Geralt a little bit of pain.

He’ll gladly kill the King of Redania if there were any chances of Jaskier making it out alive. But, in the current situation, that isn’t very likely. His swords and his armour are gone.

They’ll be given back eventually, though, he supposes. The king needs him, after all. That part of the plan, Jaskier obviously isn’t privy to, and Geralt would rather cut his tongue out than tell him.

By capturing Geralt, the king ensures Jaskier will do his bidding; and by threatening Jaskier, the king plans to force the Witcher to do his bidding as well.

Two birds with one stone, so to speak.

As if a king could command a Witcher.

Geralt knows he can’t do it, can’t become a personal assassin and monster-hunter for Vizimir, even for Jaskier. But hearing the bard’s quiet crying, Geralt isn’t so sure anymore. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if they break Jaskier’s hands in front of him.

Just as Jaskier has said – Geralt can deal with pain, the bard can’t.

But he just doesn’t know what to do, how to get out of here. He wishes Jaskier would just leave him to his fate, would just take the next opportunity and _run_.

Geralt sighs heavily.

Knowing the bard, he’ll probably run straight towards the danger instead of away from it.

There were not many moments in his life when Geralt has felt this helpless. Hearing Eskel scream in agony during the Trial of the Grasses. Standing on the road with Renfri, knowing he has to kill her. Watching Yen run away.

And now listening to Jaskier’s quiet sobs.

The bard is never silent. He laughs loudly, he hums, he sings, he talks, he complains, he jokes, he huffs, he plays the lute… he never tries to muffle the sounds he makes. This silence breaks Geralt like he never imagined he could be broken; it appears to him in his defeat as hideous and deserved punishment for reckless vanity.

He took Jaskier for granted all the years on the road, his easy friendship, his soul bubbling over with life, and joy, and positivism.

He robbed that from Jaskier with his careless treatment of him on the mountain. Maybe, if they’d stayed together, they wouldn’t have ended up here.

Or maybe they would have. But they’d get through it, like they got through anything else.

“Stop brooding,” Jaskier says so quietly that only Geralt’s Witcher hearing is able to pick up on it. The smell of pain and distress still pours off the bard in waves, but he seems to have calmed down a little.

“’M not,” Geralt mutters, watching Jaskier’s lips for that familiar smile that doesn’t come.

Fuck.

“You always brood; it’s part of your charisma,” Jaskier replies, and Geralt exhales with relief. The bard seems to be at least partly himself again.

“So you _do_ think I have charisma,” Geralt murmurs instead of his usual ‘hm’. He knows he has to make an effort. Jaskier deserves a better friend than he’s been. The least he can do is act a little out of character, venture out of his comfort zone, and take a leap of faith.

Jaskier makes a peculiar noise that could almost be called a chuckle. “Darling, you have the charisma of a very dangerous, growling, silent, and poisonous plant. It’s _there_ , but it’s not helpful.”

Geralt snorts.

“Talking of helpful. Any way to get us out of here? Not that I immensely enjoy catching up with you, but… _carpe diem_ , you know,” he says, spreading his arms.

 _Memento mori_ , Geralt adds silently, biting his lip. Why does Jaskier have to be human? His death is unavoidable, and this thought alone is enough to make Geralt want to punch the wall.

“There’s a whole world out there waiting for me,” the bard adds a little too forcefully.

 _There is_ , Geralt agrees silently.

“I might be able to get out of the shackles around my wrist,” Geralt replies instead, scrutinising the old iron. Vesemir taught him and the others many, many winters ago when Witchers were getting caught by soldiers more often. The ties around his feet are more difficult, though. Breaking a few bones won’t cut it. “There’d be a few disadvantages, though.”

Like not being able to fight properly with two broken hands.

“A plan, then. The princess doesn’t seem so bad, but I’d still rather not marry her. Or marry at all, to be honest. Settling down, ugh. Do Witchers ever retire?”

Before Geralt can reply, Jaskier continues, “Yes, yes, I know. When they’re dead. That’s the positive attitude we need here. Okay, worst case scenario, I marry and you’ll be on your way to hunt some monsters. And by marrying I mean saying some meaningless vows in front of the king and… fuck, I hope they don’t expect… do they?”

“Um…” Geralt isn’t exactly sure what Jaskier is talking about. The bard looks slightly green, and Geralt is afraid he might throw up again. The smell of vomit is still pungent in the air, and his Witcher senses don’t really enjoy it.

“The bedding ceremony, Geralt,” Jaskier snaps. “Fuck. I mean… how am I gonna…? _No_ …”

“We escape before that, then,” the Witcher offers because he really doesn’t want to picture Jaskier and a faceless princess together while being stared at by the king and some nobles. Scratch the last part – he doesn’t want to imagine Jaskier being forced to sleep with _anybody_. (Not that the poor princess would have a better fate.)

“Smart, darling Witcher, very smart. And _how_ do you suggest we do that?”

To that, the darling Witcher has no answer.

***

One hour passes. One hour in which Geralt silently contemplates escape plans. Okay, well, he _broods_ , but that’s beside the point. His wrists and ankles ache slightly from the shackles, but every time he moves, Jaskier flinches, so he tries to suppress it.

The bard leans silently against the wall, his eyes closed, and if Geralt didn’t hear his erratic heartbeat, he’d think that he was asleep.

“We need an ally,” he finally admits because that was the only solution. They need somebody on the outside. Here, all they can do is wait.

“Who?” Jaskier asks tiredly.

“Hm,” Geralt grunts because he doesn’t know. The only people he came up with were far, far away, and only one has the means of portal travel. He knows that Yennefer would help them, whatever the history between them.

After spending one night on the mountain top to clear his head, Geralt was forced to decide whom he should follow first. Jaskier’s and Yen’s path split on the foot of the mountain, Jaskier continuing to the inn and Yen in the other direction. Her trail was a little older, if only by hours.

Geralt predicted that Jaskier would wait at the inn for him (and now he knows that he did), that his friend knew his words were only said in anger. It’s Geralt’s instinctive reaction to lash out when confronted with emotions he can’t handle, and that was exactly what he did. For twenty minutes, Geralt stared at the road, Roach patiently waiting next to him, until he managed to decide whom to follow first.

Borch told him he’d lose Yen sooner or later, but he’d rather it was _later_. So he decided to follow the sorceress…

*

_(A few weeks before)_

Roach gallops briskly down the dusty road that follows the shape of the mountain for a few miles before turning right into a river valley. Geralt knows he’s half a day behind Yen, and his only hope is that she doesn’t portal away before he reaches her. She took the knight’s horse, and her pace had been slow from what Geralt can tell from the hoof prints. He could catch up with her by nightfall, ride back the next morning, and talk to Jaskier.

The words they screamed at each other play over and over in his head. The look of utter betrayal in those beautiful purple eyes. She has to know that this is _real_ , whatever he feels. The djinn couldn’t have made them fall in love, if there’d been no foundation for it.

She’s a sorceress, for Melitele’s sake. She should know that.

It took Geralt so, so long to accept friendship, and love, and somebody who wanted and needed him, somebody he wanted and needed in return – he couldn’t lose both of them on one day.

The afternoon sun burns down on Geralt when he stops at the river to let Roach drink and refill his waterskin. He passed the spot where Yen had camped last night a few hours ago and hopes he’s close now.

_I can’t lose her. I can’t lose her. I can’t lose her._

That thought plays over and over in his mind, and he doesn’t understand why it plagues him this much. He’s lost friends, brothers, lovers before, but no death has ever quiet hurt like this.

The world is tinted in shadows when he finally picks up on that delicious scent of gooseberries and lilac. _Her_ scent. The one that always so cruelly fades, the one he can never hold on to.

He breathes in deeply, tries to engrain it in his brain, to relish it as much as he can, just in case he’ll never smell it again.

He brings Roach to a stop and slides down from her back.

“Yen?” he asks. He can hear her traitorous heartbeat, but she’s cloaked by magic. He lets his gaze wander over the small bushes that provide hardly any shelter, his cat eyes piercing the darkness easily.

“Please,” he adds because he knows she might portal away any second, and then all would be for naught.

He blinks and, suddenly, Yennefer stands right in front of him, as beautiful and lethal and dark as the universe.

“What do you want?” she hisses, her eyes flashing dangerously.

Suddenly, he’s not sure anymore if it was good decision to follow her. Maybe he should’ve given her some space instead, some freedom, like she’d demanded.

“Talk,” he replies and she laughs, but it’s a humourless, bitter sound.

“You? Talk?” she mocks, and he makes a step back, her contempt like a physical blow. “Words are what brought us here.”

“Yen, I…” He winces. Words aren’t his language, and he doesn’t know what to say. His heart is so full of things, but his tongue lies dead in his mouth.

“Where’s the bard then?” she inquires, making a show of looking around. “Did you at least apologise when he waited for you like a kicked puppy?”

Geralt gives no answer, but something on his face must’ve betrayed him.

“Oh, you didn’t, did you? You just expect him to take it.” She shakes her head. “You’re selfish, Witcher.”

“It was not my intention to trap you,” he forces out. “I couldn’t know what the djinn would do.”

“And that’s supposed to make it okay?” Yennefer snaps, stepping into his personal space once more, and the scent he loves so much almost suffocates him. “You _used_ me.”

“You used me, too,” he shoots back.

“Well, at least you consented to it, didn’t you?”

Her words hit him like a kick in the chest. She makes it sound like he took advantage of her, which is _not_ what happened. Or is it? Is the djinn’s magic like a lust potion, taking away a person’s control?

He refuses to believe that.

“The djinn didn’t alter my feelings, Yen. So he didn’t alter yours either,” Geralt tries again. “He intertwined our fates, bound our life forces together, but… you _know_ that magic can’t fabricate love where there’s none.”

Yennefer pales, her violet eyes almost black in the night. “Fuck you, Geralt.”

Instantly, he knows that he went too far.

There’s a flash of white light –

and when Geralt opens his eyes again, he’s lying in the middle of the road, Roach’s velvety mouth on his cheek, and the sun is blinding in its brightness. He just knows without looking up or sniffing the air that the scent he so longs for will be gone, and Yen with it.

*

“Please don’t tell me you’re talking about who I think you’re talking about,” Jaskier interrupts his musing, and Geralt looks up.

The bard has an adorable little pout on his face and… wait, since when does Geralt think Jaskier is _adorable_?

“Hm,” he growls.

“Oh, no, no, no, no.” Jaskier begins to shake his head, but stops abruptly, groaning. “Aw, bad idea. The witch will sooner enjoy this than help us, believe me.”

“Yen’s a sorceress,” Geralt replies.

“Oh, we’re getting technical now? Fine, Witcher. The scary _sorceress_ hates your gut right now. What makes you think she’d ever help you – or me for that matter?”

Geralt winces. He can’t explain it. It’s a gut feeling. “I just know.”

“Ah, right. _You just know_. Of course. What was I thinking? Your infallible Witcher senses never steered you wrong, did they? Then how come you’re in this cell, oh mighty Witcher?”

The venom in Jaskier’s voice makes Geralt almost flinch, but he controls his muscles in time. He reminds himself that he’s given Jaskier no reason to trust him again after the mountain. He can’t expect him to take his words at face value as the bard used to do during their travels.

Now that he no longer has Jaskier’s trust, Geralt understands how much he relied on it, how much he needs it.

“Jaskier, there’s nobody else who could make it here in time,” he replies softly.

The bard snaps his mouth shut with an audible _click_ , probably realising the Witcher is right. “Fuck,” he curses finally, voice soft with resignation. “Fine. How do we reach the madwoman? Do you have a charm or something?”

Geralt shakes his head, and the faint smell of hope that sweetened the rotten stink of the cell disappears.

Suddenly, Geralt hears one pair of footsteps approaching. Light footsteps, too light to belong to the guards, and he turns his head. A girl dances into the dungeon like the first sunray over the horizon. She’s dressed in a simple brown dress, a black veil covering her hair and face, but something about her is familiar. She has intelligent, bright, hazel eyes and dark lashes – where has he seen these eyes before?

Thanks to his cat eyes, Geralt even spots a few freckles on her nose, which is partly hidden by the veil. They make her look young, he thinks.

Jaskier turns abruptly, scrambling to his feet, one hand on the wall for support.

The girl stops in front of the cell, a good metre away from the bars, and Geralt can faintly smell fear. But it’s not him she looks at but _Jaskier_.

Then, she lifts a pale hand and tugs the veil away from her face. The Witcher needs a second to place her face… she looked differently from yesterday. Her brown hair had been styled and braided, her dress dark blue like her father’s cloak, her cheeks flushed with wine, and her eyes widened in horror.

“Princess Ana!” Jaskier exclaims at once, and the figure stiffens, casting a nervous glance down the hallway. However, Geralt can hear that no guards are in listening distance.

Quickly, silently, her hands slip into the folds of her dress, and she takes out a large bottle of water, a vial of something sharp-and-minty, and a folded piece of cloth containing a whole bread by the shape of it. Geralt’s mouth waters.

“You’re Jas…” she interrupts herself. “Viscount Julian?”

“Jaskier,” the bard says firmly, carefully taking the items from her. Instantly, she steps back again, as if he’d try to grab her and pull her through the bars. She seems wary of him, unsure what to expect of her future husband. Geralt thinks she’s either very foolish or very smart to be more scared of Jaskier than of the Witcher in the dungeon.

“What is this?” The bard nods at the vial containing a dark green liquid.

“My father takes it when he drinks too much,” the girl responds, blushing slightly and looking very determinedly not at the puddle of vomit at Jaskier’s feet or at Jaskier’s face.

“Thank you, princess,” the bard replies a tad warmer, and she nods briskly.

Her eyes never stay still. They flit from the vial in Jaskier’s hands to his cornflower eyes to the wine stains on his doublet to the barred window. Finally, her gaze glides over to Geralt, and he steels himself for fear or disgust. Surprisingly, her acorn eyes soften when she takes in his appearance, sympathy creeping into her features.

“I’m sorry…” she begins but falters. Then, she looks back at Jaskier, her back rigidly straight. “I’m sorry my father forced you to…” She doesn’t seem able to finish that sentence, but everyone knows what she’s talking about

“That obvious, huh?” Jaskier grimaces, rubbing his neck.

Instantly, her eyes turn cold again. “I might be a princess, but I’m not stupid,” she replies a little more defensively than necessary. “The knights in shining armour only exist in fairytales as do love stories that end well.”

Geralt frowns. That’s awfully disillusioned for such a young person. However, for nobles, marriage is a political arrangement, nothing else. Humans have to make the most out of the short lifespan they’re given, and they suffer for it. He’d never understand why they enjoy being unhappy so much.

“Princess,” Jaskier begins, a condescending note to his voice, but Ana interrupts him harshly.

“I don’t need your pity.”

“I wasn’t going to offer pity,” the bard replies just as heatedly. His fingers are curled around the vial, his knuckles white.

 _Damn it, Jaskier_ , Geralt screams at him in his mind. Why can’t the bard be charming when he needs him to be? Instead, he’s angry and volatile – understandable, given the situation, but not helpful.

“Why are you here, your highness?” Geralt interjects before Jaskier can screw this up further. They need an ally, and he’s in the process of scaring a potential one away.

Ana’s gaze snaps back towards him. “I could ask you the same, Witcher.”

Her fearlessness when it comes to him is impressive. Geralt knows that, even bound and caged, his appearance – his eyes, his hair – is unsettling.

“That would be my fault, then,” Jaskier pipes up, choosing _now_ to wallow in guilt and self-pity. “You father… well, Geralt’s my friend, and…”

Geralt growls in warning, but Jaskier isn’t stupid enough to tell the princess about the threats of torture. She seems to understand anyway.

“I see,” she replies flatly. “If the Witcher is freed, my father has no leverage against you.”

Jaskier winces, realising what he’s done. “Please, Princess Ana, this is nothing personal –”

“Of course, it is.” She makes a tiny step forward, her heartbeat getting slightly faster. Geralt can smell the desperation under her perfume now. “What do you think will happen to me when you disappear? You seem almost kind, helping your Witcher friend like that, and you’re funny, you can sing, and you can tell stories… and you’re not even twice my age. This marriage could work. I’m not as terrible as you might think.”

Jaskier chokes on a laugh, and the princess shoots him a withering look.

“I will not be shipped off to Nilfgaard for some political alliance or other,” she hisses, her fingers curling into fists. Her eyes are sparking, and a determined sort of energy swirls around her that gives the Witcher hope.

She wants _freedom_ so bad Geralt can almost taste it. This yearning – to spread her wings, to run and laugh and live – the Witcher understands perfectly, and he bets Jaskier does, too. But the bard decides, yet again, to screw this up.

“Don’t worry, Princess. I’ll marry you,” Jaskier says offhandedly, as if that had been the point of her tirade. How could he be so blind?

“Don’t mock me, Visc-… _Jaskier_. I know exactly you’re both scheming, trying to find a way out of this.”

All casualness falls from Jaskier’s posture, and he steps forward, his fingers curling around the iron bars. The girl draws back, mirroring his movement, keeping a safe distance between her and the prisoners.

“If you’re trying to stop us, I swear to –”

“She’s not,” Geralt interrupts Jaskier’s threat, cocking his head slightly. “Are you, Princess?”

The girl casts a surprised glance at him, as if she’d forgotten all about him. “I… I don’t know.” Then, she turns on her heels and practically runs out of the dungeon.

Jaskier still stares at the dark hallway long after she’s gone, her steps faded, and his shoulders slump. But Geralt feels not pity.

“Well done, Jaskier,” he snarls, his voice dripping with sarcasm. Absent-mindedly, he adjusts his position, attempting to ease the strain on his thigh muscles, and the chains rattle loudly in the uncomfortable silence. “You’re truly a master of words and human interaction.”

The girl could’ve helped them somehow, maybe contacted a mage and Yennefer. But now, their chance was _over_. Because Jaskier had to be rude. That was _his_ job, godsdamnit, not Jaskier’s.

The bard rounds on him, “That’s rich coming from you – _you_! – the paragon of paranoia and distrust.” He makes a step forward, almost kicking over the water bottle. That seems to remind him of the hangover potion in his hand, and he uncorks it, sniffs, winces, and then empties the whole thing in one gulp.

Geralt continues to glare at him while he coughs pathetically, as the stuff burns down his throat. There’re tears in his eyes, but his iron-stiff shoulders relax a little. Whatever it is, it seems to help. Besides, the strong mint smell is much better than the stink of vomit, and sweat, and rotten straw that permeate the dungeon, and Geralt feels his mind relax a little.

“Ugh,” the bard groans, wiping tears from his eyes; then, he takes a heavy gulp of water to chase down the taste of the potion. Slowly, his mind seems to clear enough to realise what he’s done – he bungled their only chance to gain an ally. Geralt can basically watch how the guilt consumes his features, and he looks so miserable that the Witcher softens a little

“Maybe she’ll come back,” Jaskier murmurs, his voice void of his normal optimism.

 _Didn’t seem like it_ , he wants to snap but keeps the words in. Now their situation is just as hopeless as before, and Geralt retreats into anger to combat the despair.

After a moment, the bard sits down next to Geralt, offering him the water in a gesture that means to appease. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, but Geralt’s too mad to react.

The silence between them grows like cancer – a silence that speaks of anger and absences, of blindness and errors and betrayals; a silence that Geralt has learned to hate in the weeks without the bard – and Jaskier is still holding the bottle towards him, his cornflower eyes pleading, and he just can’t take it anymore.

With a grunt, he accepts the water.


	3. Heart of Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Revelations...

Jaskier watches Geralt from the corner of his eyes. The Witcher is glowering at the floor, as if he could melt the stone with his gaze.

The bard knows he reacted rashly, too defensively. But something in his mind kept screaming _enemy, enemy_ when Princess Ana was here.

He rips a piece out of the bread and stuffs in into his mouth. He hopes they’ll get another chance with her. Perhaps, she’ll bring more food later. _So… focus, Jaskier._ They should make a strategy until then.

The bread calms his nervous stomach, and his headache is nearly gone thanks to the potion. In a way, that makes everything worse because, now, Jaskier has time to focus on their predicament instead of on not throwing up.

He bites into the bread again, chews, and swallows. The bread is a little dry, maybe from yesterday, but right now everything would taste good. When he looks up, he realises Geralt is not eating.

“Here,” he says, handing him a large chunk of bread as a peace offering. The Witcher must be hungry as well.

“Save it for later,” Geralt mumbles, not even looking at it.

Instantly, Jaskier stops eating. If this is going to be one of these self-sacrificing, I’m-totally-fine-and-not-hurt antics, he will punch the Witcher. Or is he still mad at Jaskier for ruining their chances with Ana?

“It’s enough for both of us.”

“I’m not hungry,” Geralt deflects, still stubbornly looking at the floor.

_Sure_. Because Witchers don’t need such mundane things as food. “Ah,” Jaskier says dryly. “And when did you last eat?”

Geralt opens his mouth and closes it again, not meeting Jaskier’s searching gaze.

_He can’t remember_ , Jaskier realises and, suddenly, the food tastes like ash in his mouth. In fact, the bard doesn’t even know for how long Geralt has been here. It could be… weeks. This thought almost makes the nausea come back.

“Eat!” he says forcefully, thrusting the piece of bread into Geralt’s hands.

The Witcher looks at it as if it might bite him and then back at Jaskier. “I don’t need…”

“The fuck you do.” Jaskier does his best to glare at him. “And if you even _try_ to take the word ‘Witcher metabolism’ into your mouth, I’ll sing ‘Toss a Coin’ till my voice breaks.”

Geralt blinks. “That’s two words.”

“Ha, ha, very funny.” Jaskier gestures at the bread. “I said _eat_!”

Almost palpable relief floods him when Geralt sighs in defeat. He waits until Geralt nibbles on the bread before he takes another bite. It’s extremely satisfactory to watch the Witcher eat, even if it’s just a piece of bread. Jaskier had a full meal yesterday evening. He can totally make do with a tiny piece of bread for now if Geralt insists on saving it for later.

Besides, Geralt would need his strength if they were to make an escape attempt.

“So… the princess,” he begins conversationally, “Why do you think she wasn’t here to stop us?”

Geralt gestures wordlessly at the food.

“Not everybody who brings you food doesn’t intend harm,” Jaskier replies, allowing himself another bite.

“Hm.”

The bard turns the conversation over in his mind. The princess had definitely acted a little weirdly, but nothing she said indicated she’d be willing to help them escape. “I mean, she said…”

Geralt interrupts him, “She smelled desperate.”

“She – what?” Jaskier gasps, his eyes wide. “What do you mean _smell_? You can smell emotions? Like, for real?” That might be a problem because Jaskier is reasonably sure that he still cares more than he should about a certain Witcher. But if Geralt hasn’t picked up on it all those years on the road, why would he –

But what if he _had_ picked up on it? On Jaskier’s jealousy when it came to Yennefer? Maybe _that_ ’s the reason he pushed the bard away?

“Calm down, Jask. You knew my sense of smell was heightened.”

“Yeah, but… emotions?” he replies faintly. He hadn’t known that, not really. People must be an open book to Geralt – why then, in Melitele’s name, is the Witcher so blind when it comes to Jaskier’s feelings? Or does he just not care? Did he smell Jaskier’s happiness when they shared a bed and just grumbled something about saving money to prevent Jaskier from thinking he was doing something nice for him? Did he smell that warm feeling in Jaskier’s chest that he doesn’t want to name whenever they shared a smile?

Nervous, Jaskier licks his lips, deciding to test that theory. “What do I smell like?”

Geralt looks at him for a second, inhaling deeply. “Velvet.” He grimaces. “Wine and misery. Wood. Bread.” He hesitates. “You.”

Jaskier’s mouth opens, but no sound comes out.

Velvet? – His doublet, of course.

Wine and misery was pretty self-explanatory, given the situation.

Wood? Why would he smell like – _oh_ , of course. Wood splinters. His lute.

Bread.

_You_.

Jaskier feels his cheeks go hot. Something about these words, about Geralt’s honesty makes his heart beat faster and his palms sweaty. But at least, there seems to be no large sign over his head screaming _I love you_.

(Not that he did!)

“Well, er, sure,” he attempts to cover his reaction, desperately trying to remember the original topic. “So she smelled like desperation. And that tells us… what exactly?”

Geralt gives him a look, as if to say, _It’s obvious, isn’t it?_

“Humour me,” Jaskier mumbles.

“She doesn’t want to marry either,” Geralt explains, which explains absolutely nothing in Jaskier’s eyes, and he can’t believe that _he’s_ the one that missed a key point of social interaction. Okay, he’d been too busy feigning nonchalance and being passive-aggressive to actually watch the princess.

“So if we offer her an alternative…?” Geralt adds when Jaskier doesn’t react.

Slowly, Geralt’s idea dawns on him. It’s so crazy and unrealistic only a Witcher could’ve thought of it.

“She won’t agree. Whatever you think of offering. She won’t. She’s grown up at court; she won’t just run away, exchange her jewellery for rags, just to get a taste of freedom. Trust me.”

“Hm,” Geralt murmurs, chewing his last piece of bread. For a moment, all that can be heard is Geralt munching and swallowing; the chains make a soft sound as he moves his ankle, causing them to move over the stone floor. The sound feels like razors on Jaskier’s skin. He wants to be out of here so desperately and he wants Geralt to be free, free from iron chains, free to be away from him.

“We could fake my death, and she could marry my brother,” Jaskier suggests desperately.

Geralt narrows his eyes. “And that would help her _how_ exactly?”

Jaskier winces. Princess Ana isn’t really on his list of top priorities, even if it was nice of her to bring food. “We wouldn’t need her.”

“Hm,” the Witcher grumbles sceptically. “Then tell me how you want to fake your death.”

“Well, I hadn’t got that far,” Jaskier snaps. “Your idea is just as crazy. There are not many places we could take her where her father wouldn’t find her. Besides becoming an acolyte of Melitele, I don’t see how… I mean, she’s a _princess_. They are not made for the real world.”

Geralt looks at him sharply, and Jaskier feels shame heating his cheeks. His words were mean and derogatory, and he hadn’t entirely meant them, but still… he doesn’t like to rely on Princess Ana, or on Yennefer for that matter.

And still, they are their only hope.

***

“The starless night that covers me / black as pit from wall to wall / is a place of wrath and tears / trying to destroy my very soul…” Jaskier sighs. His fingers ache with the need to grab his lute, but the knowledge that he’ll never play on it again is too horrible to linger on it. “Too depressive, isn’t it?”

Geralt, as usual, gives no response.

“Yeah, I know. It’s terrible.” Jaskier leans back against the wall and stares into the all-encompassing darkness. “Something else, then.” He inhales deeply and lets the lyrics flow from his soul into the air. “The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars /Did wander darkling in the eternal space, /Rayless, and pathless…” He pauses. “Hm, not bad…”

Geralt stays silent.

“And the icy earth /Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air; / Morn came and went—and came, and brought no day…”

“Jaskier,” Geralt growls.

“I can think better when I’m composing,” he retorts, glaring at the Witcher who glares back.

Finally, Geralt growls again, then closes his eyes and shifts, trying to find a somewhat comfortable position that doesn’t cut off his blood flow. Jaskier winces at the sight, but quickly focuses back on the song.

“Where was I? Yes… no day… _The world was void._ That’s nice isn’t it?” he interjects, and Geralt growls again. “The world was void, / Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless— /A lump of death—a chaos of…”

“Why doesn’t it rhyme?” Geralt interrupts.

“It doesn’t have to rhyme, you philistine. It’s _art_ ,” Jaskier hisses, almost losing his train of thought.

“ _A chaos of hard clay_. Yes, that’s it.” His fingers move without meaning to, searching for chords, and it rips his heart in two. So he forces himself to continue, “The rivers, lakes and ocean all stood still, / And nothing stirr'd within their silent depths.

“That’d be problematic for Witchers, eh? No sea monsters to hunt.” Briefly, Jaskier looks up, but Geralt doesn’t even acknowledge him.

“Well, ocean… ocean…The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave, / The moon, their mistress, had expir'd before; … there’d be no werewolves then, right?”

“Jaskier,” Geralt snarls, making the bard flinch.

“And the clouds perish’d,” he adds shakily. “Darkness had no need / Of aid from them…” He pauses, wets his lips, then delivers the last line. “She was the Universe.”

The words echo through the silence between them, powerful and monumental and… _desolate_.

And Jaskier feels empty. Composing used to fill him with joy – but now, it feels like scratching open half-healed wounds.

If he doesn’t compose, who is he then?

“I’m sorry,” he rasps, just to fill the hollowness that the absence of his words has created. “You don’t like it when I sing.”

Geralt’s head snaps back up, and his golden eyes pierce him. “Why are you apologising again?”

“I don’t know,” Jaskier mutters, curling into a tight ball. He can feel the Witcher’s gaze on him but doesn’t know how to deal with it. A part of him wants to touch, wants the comfort the Witcher’s warmth provides, but another part of him hates himself for his weakness. He doesn’t know how to reach out to Geralt, doesn’t know how to interact.

He still can’t believe that he _waited_ for Geralt for _days_ , clinging to the illusion of a friendship that never existed. How pathetic is that?

“Would you have liked me if I’d been different?” he asks, just because he enjoys a bit of masochism.

“What?” Geralt asks, his chains rattling as he tries to move towards him but can’t.

“Forget it,” Jaskier replies brusquely, cursing his stupid mouth, his lack of filter.

The chains clink again, and the sound tears at Jaskier’s bones as if he was the one with the iron cuffs. “Jaskier…” Geralt whispers, but the bard refuses to look up. The Witcher sighs heavily. “I guess you need me to say it, huh? I do –”

“Tolerate you?” Jaskier suggests, bitter.

“… _like_ you,” Geralt finishes, looking vaguely in pain. “You’re my… friend.”

Jaskier’s mouth falls open. “You… I… _what_?” How could Geralt make him speechless with just a few words?

“I apologised for what I said, what I did,” Geralt adds, a confused frown marring his marble brow.

“Yeah, but…” Jaskier begins to protest until the words register. “You _apologised_.”

Geralt _meant_ the apology. It wasn’t just empty words.

The bard shifts forward, closer to Geralt. “Tell me – are you just saying that because we both might end up dead, or worse?”

Geralt’s frown deepens, as if questioning what exactly might be worse than being dead, but then he replies “No” in a tone that said, _obviously, you idiot_.

Something in Jaskier’s chest melts. He means. He fucking means it.

Geralt’s gaze flickers to the floor. “I came back for you, you know. But I was too slow. You’d already left.”

“You… came for me,” Jaskier repeats slowly, trying to understand if that means what he thinks it means.

Suddenly, Jaskier is very, very scared.

When Geralt left him, he felt hurt, obviously, and sad, and angry, and … many things, but mainly scared.

Scared of how much he missed the Witcher already.

Scared of feeling so fucking vulnerable.

Scared of a life without Geralt, of the way that lay ahead.

He’d wanted to put space and time between them, but, at the same time, he’d been afraid of what space and time might do to them, to Jaskier’s feelings. Because he didn’t regret them, even if they brought him pain.

No, he was fucking grateful that he’d met the Witcher, and that was the scariest part of it all.

So he ran; he put as much distance between them as fast as he could.

And now… now it seems that if he’d only waited for one more day, things could’ve been different.

Because Geralt came for him.

Because Geralt regrets his angry words.

Because Geralt thinks he’s his friend.

“I know it doesn’t make up for the way I treated you,” the Witcher interrupts the downward spiral of his thoughts, his voice strangely husky. “I was a terrible friend most of the time.”

“Not when it mattered,” Jaskier replies at once. Because it’s the truth. Geralt’s might not have apologised with words but with actions, always with actions – a skinned rabbit here, a bump of shoulders there…

“And I realise that I shovelled the shit quite fine myself,” the Witcher adds dryly, as if Jaskier hadn’t spoken. “If I hadn’t wished for silence, the djinn wouldn’t have attacked you. It was my own choice to… get involved with Yen.” He shakes his head, like he can’t quite believe himself either. “And I enacted the law of surprise. My own stupid mistake.”

Jaskier stares at him with wide eyes. Something in his chest flutters and twists and spreads warmth into his limbs. Geralt’s forgiveness feels like being finally able to breathe after spending decades under water.

Normally, he’d crack a joke or say something overly dramatic, but this new peace between them feels too fragile, too precious. Instead, he lurches forwards, throwing his arms around the Witcher. He pours all his love into this hug, and he hopes that Geralt feels it, that he lets go of the guilt that drowns him.

Something about the Witcher is inherently tragic, and that’s probably what drew Jaskier towards him like a moth to the flame. However, it’s also a darkness that consumes him at times, a monster within that he can’t fight.

“I can’t lose you, too, Jask,” Geralt whispers so low that Jaskier can’t be sure he understood it correctly, but he answers nevertheless. “You’ll never lose me, darling. You’re my heart of light.” Because he _is_ , he fucking _is_.

Geralt is good, and kind, and caring in his own way. He always knows what is right. He despises compromise, the lesser evil. He makes Jaskier want to be better, braver, nobler.

“Heart of light,” the Witcher repeats softly, making a strange sound, an almost-chuckle.

Geralt’s body vibrates against his own as he speaks, his body heat like a warm blanket in front of a fire, his breath ghosting over Jaskier’s hair. If they were at any other place, this moment would be utterly perfect –

right now, it’s just _almost_ perfect, and Jaskier loves it even more because of it.

“We’ll get out of here, I promise,” Geralt says, and, reluctantly, the bard lets go but stays so close that their knees almost touch. Geralt’s golden eyes are like fierce sunlight, determined and powerful, and suddenly, the lines come to Jaskier all by themselves.

“Out of the night that covers me,  
Black as the pit from pole to pole,  
I thank whatever gods may be  
For my unconquerable soul.”

***

A few hours pass. Jaskier can’t be sure how much time; the light isn’t enough to measure it, and his hunger has grown steadily.

When his stomach begins to growl loudly, Geralt pushes over the bread, but Jaskier refuses to eat until the Witcher does the same. Thankfully, the hardened warrior can’t bear the pathetic noises Jaskier’s stomach makes, giving in in under a minute.

“Somebody comes,” Geralt warns him suddenly, just as they’ve finished half the bread.

Jaskier only just manages to hide the rest of the bread in a dark corner before the King of Redania appears in front of their cell. He’s wearing an almost simple grey doublet, but Jaskier knows how expensive it is to dye clothes in that dark shade. Four guards accompany him, their faces expressionless.

“Viscount,” Vizimir greets him amicably. “How good to see you awake.”

Jaskier hides his scowl in a deep bow. “Your majesty, how may I be of service on this beautiful day?”

“I see the living arrangements haven’t dampened your spirit. _Wonderful_ ,” he says, sugary-sweet. “You understand, of course, that I couldn’t risk you changing your mind and… escaping.” There’s a sudden edge to his tone that sends a shiver down Jaskier’s spine. He hopes Princess Ana hasn’t relayed their conversation to her father, but maybe if she had, the king wouldn’t waste any energy on this fake friendliness.

“Of course, your majesty,” Jaskier nods, deciding to test the waters. “But questioning my word as a nobleman is deeply insulting.”

Vizimir’s eyes narrow minimally, but Jaskier is good in reading changes of expression. He’s had years of practice with a certain Witcher.

“Your word as a nobleman is worth nothing, bard. You’re like a two-headed snake, choosing the identity that suits you. So if you hoped that would get you out of here – it won’t.”

Jaskier hides his clenched teeth in a well-practised fake smile. He hadn’t expected his blunt remark to get him anywhere, least of all out of here. Besides, this was refreshingly direct.

“This inhuman treatment of my person is neither fitting a nobleman nor a bard. I demand a bath, fresh clothes, and food for me and my friend,” he says, puffing out his chest.

Geralt shifts slightly, and Jaskier recognises the warning.

The king smiles indulgently. “But of course, my dear Viscount.” He turns to one of the guards. “Tell a servant to bring the Viscount his clothes and fresh water.”

The guard nods, quickly leaving the hallway.

“Someone will inform the kitchens about your wishes,” he adds.

Jaskier tries to ignore the uneasy feeling in his stomach. Something about this easy agreement doesn’t sit right with him. “Thank you, your majesty,” he replies without missing a beat.

“Wonderful. I will be back later, so we can discuss the wedding procedure. I’m afraid it’s a bit too late to send out invitations, but your brother has been informed by pigeon,” he says dismissively.

“I’m looking forward to it, your majesty,” Jaskier replies with a deep bow. When he straightens, the king is gone, only the guards are still waiting in the corridor. They sneer at him, but he ignores them, turning to Geralt.

The Witcher crouches on the floor, much like a cat right before it attacks, and Jaskier admires his ability to look dangerous even now. His gaze flickers to Jaskier, and he gestures subtly with his head to the side. The bard rolls his eyes at his protectiveness but steps at Geralt’s side. It does help to calm the queasy feeling that still lingers in his stomach.

Geralt shifts, bridging the distance between them. His shoulder brushes against Jaskier’s thigh, and the bard knows he’s as safe as can be. It’s the same feeling he gets when he accompanies Geralt on a hunt – even though the Witcher always protests – knowing he’s protected, knowing Geralt is there. He might get a few scratches, but, in the end, he’ll be all right.

The feeling vanishes the instant he sees the leer on the soldier’s face and the buckets of icy well water the servants carry in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poems Jaskier butchers are Darkness by Lord Byron and Invictus by William Ernest Henley
> 
> I always want my characters to be honest to each other, so I hope Geralt doesn't reveal too much too fast in your opinion. Oh, the drama!


	4. This Escalated Quickly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt goes feral and Jaskier has to pay the consequences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your comments and kudos and bookmarks. They make me very happy!
> 
> The poem in the middle is "Still I Rise" by Maya Angelou.
> 
> Trigger Warning for violence and whipping. This one is dark, people.

“Strip!”

Jaskier makes a step back at the soldier’s command, then another, until he hits the wall. Geralt can hear his fast heartbeat, wishing there was anything he could do.

But the iron shackles won’t break.

Besides, it’s only cold water.

“Strip!” the soldier bellows again, opening the door to their cell, and Geralt growls in warning.

“Behave yourself, wolf,” the soldier hisses, knowing that he’s quite safe from the Witcher as long as he doesn’t approach. “Filthy mutant.”

“Shut up!” Jaskier comes to his defence at once.

The man ignores him, nodding at the other three guards. “Take him.”

“No!” Jaskier screams, hiding behind Geralt. He doesn’t exactly understand why Jaskier is so afraid of the water –

but it’s not the water, is it? It’s the humiliation.

Geralt assesses the guards as they move. None of them moves like a Witcher – silent, predatory, aware of their surroundings. It would be almost too easy to take them by surprise, even in his state. But none of them has a key to his chains. And there are more guards waiting just a few doors down.

Geralt can’t win – he knows this – but when the first makes a move at Jaskier, something inside him snaps. He attacks.

Like a wolf, he launches himself forward so fast that the guard can only blink, grabbing his ankle and pulling. The man hits the ground with the loud clank of metal on stone, and while the other soldiers just stare, Geralt doesn’t hesitate. He pulls the man closer so he can grab the sword; then, he swings the flat blade at his head, knocking him out.

The weight of the sword in his hand feels wrong. It’s too light, unbalanced, shorter than his own sword. But, at the same time, Geralt feels powerful again, knowing exactly he’s the most dangerous creature in the room.

With a roar, the soldiers are on him.

Placing one hand on the floor, he kicks the feet out from under the man who tried to attack him from the side – luckily just within the range of his chains – rolls away from a vertical blow to his head, and cuts clean through the Achilles heel of the third. The man screams, dropping like sack of potatoes.

Jaskier gasps behind him, and Geralt moves just in time to block another blow with the chain between his cuffs. Unfortunately for him, they don’t break. Quickly, he yanks the guard closer, twists the sword out of his hands, and elbows him in the groin. The soldier groans, doubling over.

“Jaskier, run,” Geralt snarls, just as the second soldier recovers and screams for back-up.

“But…” Jaskier makes a step towards the door, but then the idiot _pauses_ , giving away precious seconds.

“Fuck, Jaskier,” Geralt curses, wrapping his arms around the second soldier’s throat and his scream dies in a gurgle. But it’s too late.

Running footsteps announce more guards, at least ten. If Geralt wasn’t chained… but, alas, he is. They are on him in seconds, angry and brutal. The Witcher fights back with his whole body, much like a hurt, desperate animal, with claws and teeth and forehead and elbows, a flame of pure ferocity blazing up in his heart – even though he knows he’ll lose this. The powerful feeling from before is gone. Now it’s a fight for pure survival.

(He just can’t take it, can’t let them win so easily.)

Every bone he breaks, every hit he lands, fill him with a vicious sort of satisfaction that he normally derives from killing monsters.

The pommel of a sword hits him in the jaw, but he doesn’t flinch. He fights like the last wolf of a pack might, with no regard for his own welfare, reckless and vicious, heedless of pain, fearless, but he’s outnumbered. He moves too slow to dodge the next sword strike, and it slashes over his ribs.

“Geralt,” Jaskier screams, and he can see how the bard leaps forward, in the way of the attacker. “Stop! Stop it!”

The soldier pushes him back so hard that he collides with the iron bars. Geralt snarls, but there’s nothing he can do. The soldiers use his temporary distraction to disarm him. A kick to his ribs drives all air out of his lungs, and a yank on the chain makes him lose his footing.

Suddenly, he’s on the floor, on his back, his hands pinned over his head by a sword. Feet and fists and blades rain down on him like iron hail. He hears Jaskier scream but can’t even turn his head to look for the bard.

–

After what feels like hours later, the soldiers step back, having poured all their rage and hatred into him. Their breaths echo loudly through the cell. Geralt doesn’t move – he’s not quite sure he can. Every inch of his body hurts, his wrist is broken, almost all his ribs, his nose, his jaw…

Suddenly, a wave of cold water hits him, and he blinks up at a sneering soldier who emptied one of the buckets over him. A part of Geralt’s mind hopes the water will clean the wounds, so they won’t get infected, but a greater part yells at the cold. Of course, he doesn’t make a sound.

This is nothing compared to the Trial of the Grasses.

This is nothing to make him scream.

“No, no, no,” Jaskier’s voice reaches his ears, and something about his tone forces Geralt to turn his head, even though it hurts like a bastard.

Two soldiers hold his arms while two others cut the clothes from his body with knives – the rest watches, whistles, jeers – but they’re not exactly gentle about it. The faint rusty smell of Jaskier’s blood filters through his nostrils and lathers down his tongue.

Geralt chokes.

Pieces of orange velvet, embroidered satin, and dark expensive cotton fall to the floor in front of him, and it feels like pieces of his defeat. He doesn’t have the strength to do anything about it.

“Here’s your bath, Viscount,” one of the soldier’s drawls.

The Witcher hears a splash of water, a strangled gasp, and cruel, mocking laughter. A few cold drops land on his face, sliding down his cheek like teardrops.

Then, finally, _finally_ , they leave.

Guilt swirls in Geralt’s gut. The smell of Jaskier’s blood is faint, but it’s _there_. He hasn’t protected him. He hasn’t been strong enough. He’s _failed_ him _again_. He’s allowed him to get hurt. Gods, he just watched and did nothing.

“Jask…” he whispers.

Clothes rustle, and the smell of lavender that lingers in all of Jaskier’s fresh clothes hits him –the bard keeps tiny bags of dried lavender with his clothes. That little piece of normalcy grounds him, and he inhales deeply.

A moment later, his head is lifted onto Jaskier’s lap, and big blue eyes hover over him. The bard looks concerned – he shouldn’t be. Geralt had worse. He doesn’t deserve Jaskier’s concern after the way he failed him again, doesn’t deserve his care.

“Are you hurt?” Geralt breathes.

Jaskier makes a strangled sound, half-laugh-half-sob. “I’m fine.”

He can feel Jaskier’s hands wander. A piece of cotton is pressed on the bleeding wound on his ribs and shoulder. The movement jostles his ribs slightly, but Geralt only clenches his teeth. He wants to protest – Jaskier shouldn’t do this, shouldn’t _need_ to do this; Geralt should be able to simply swallow the pain and care for himself – but something in the younger man’s expression stops him.

“That was very stupid of you,” Jaskier scolds huskily, almost softly, lovingly. “Stupid… but brave.” He dabs at the cut over Geralt’s eyebrow, even though it’s superficial. “Tell me what I can do, darling Witcher.”

“Wrist,” he mumbles, even though it hurts to speak. But breathing hurts as well, so it doesn’t really matter.

“Is it broken?” Jaskier asks, touching the limb gently.

“Hm.”

“Fuck.” Geralt feels how the bard tries to move the cuffs but can’t. “Shit, I can’t… Geralt… how do you get these off?”

“Dislocate thumb. Break hand,” he rasps, closing his eyes.

“You… what? You suggested breaking your fucking _hands_ to get us out of here?” He sounds so exasperated that Geralt almost smiles. Jaskier’s protectiveness covers him like a warm blanket, numbing the pain a little.

Jaskier continues to mutter while he treats the rest of the injuries as best as he can, but without supplies and healing salves there’s only so much he can do. Geralt is grateful because he knows he hasn’t deserved this, but Jaskier is willing to help him anyway. He’ll make up for it, get them out of here, the Witcher promises silently.

His eyelids start to droop, the exhaustion from the fight and the pain catching up with him, and Jaskier’s hands gently brushing through his hair add the finishing touch.

“Sleep, dear heart,” Jaskier whispers gently, and Geralt glides into unconsciousness.

***

The Witcher snaps awake abruptly, but the lavender smell calms him enough to not jump up.

His body hurts like a horde of hippogriffs trampled over him. (Which wasn’t too unlikely, to be honest.)

“Sh,” Jaskier whispers, his hand caressing his cheek, and Geralt relaxes back in his lap. He mentally walks through his body, checking every injury: the cuts were superficial enough to heal without stitches, most of them are already closing; a dull throbbing remains in his jaw, but his breathing is a little easier; he can move his wrist too, not well, but good enough to fight; his ribs still ache and he knows they’ll take longest to heal properly; the bruises aren’t even worth mentioning.

“’M okay,” Geralt whispers back, his tongue too heavy to articulate words properly.

“Do you want to drink something? Eat?” Jaskier asks, his hands moving over his arms and chest, fussing with the makeshift bandages.

Geralt indicates a headshake. His inner clock tells him that he slept almost four hours; the sun must be low on the sky. Jaskier hasn’t moved from their position the whole time, but now he stretches his legs a little and shifts. Instantly, Geralt attempts to move away, to relieve him of the weight of his body, and Jaskier lets him go.

Suppressing a groan, Geralt manages to pull himself into sitting position, and he can finally look at Jaskier properly. He’s wearing knew clothes – the servants must have actually brought him some – and by the smell of them, they are his own. The plum doublet clashes horribly with the canary yellow breeches, but Geralt knows the bard likes such ostentatious clothes.

“Horrible, right?” Jaskier asks, noticing Geralt’s gaze. “This is one of my favourite doublets, but I think I’ll never wear it again.”

“Hm.”

“Obviously, they would retrieve the most horrendous colour combinations. I mean, this goes wonderfully with my dark blue breeches.” He tugs at the doublet. (Geralt very much doubts that; he can’t see the doublet fitting well to _anything_.) “The king really wants to humiliate me, to… to show off how much power he has. Now, he even dictates my clothing.”

The sad tone in Jaskier’s voice makes Geralt shift closer to him, and the bard accepts the comfort, leaning against his shoulder.

“I know it’s stupid to worry about clothes in here, especially after what they did to you…”

“Don’t,” the Witcher interrupts him, hating the self-loathing in Jaskier’s voice.

“Hmpf,” the bard grumbles, cuddling closer to him. He lifts Geralt’s arms, so they fall around his shoulders, leaning his head on Geralt’s chest. The Witcher can’t prevent the slight flinch when the bard touches his injuries, putting pressure on his ribs, and Jaskier stiffens immediately, making to move away. But Geralt keeps his arm firmly wrapped around the younger man’s shoulders, pinning him in place.

“ _Why_ did you fight?” the bard rasps after a moment, looking up at him, his cornflower eyes sparking with anger.

“Because I fight monsters,” the Witcher replies simply.

***

“ _Did you want to see me broken?_ ” Jaskier hums, his fingers moving slowly in his lap. Geralt knows he does it unconsciously, and he hates the moment when Jaskier realises he does it and stops.

“ _Did you want to see me broken?_ ” Jaskier tries again, altering the tune a little, “ _Bowed head… bowed head and lowered eyes?_ ”

Geralt nuzzles his nose in Jaskier’s hair, soaking up the content smell. He already feels a little better, especially after the bard forced him to eat half of the bread they still had left. The food has given his body a burst of energy, encouraging it to heal faster.

“Do you think the princess would be happy in some village in… Kaedwen, or wherever?” Jaskier interrupts his tune, bouncing another idea at Geralt, as he’s done for the last hour.

“Hm.”

“Yeah, I don’t think so either,” Jaskier sighs and picks up the tune again. “ _Bowed head and lowered eyes? Shoulders falling down like teardrops…_ – what rhymes with _eyes_?”

“I thought it doesn’t have to rhyme,” Geralt murmurs.

Jaskier shoots him a glare that would’ve made a weaker man falter. “It _doesn’t_. But I want it to.”

“Hm.”

“Eyes – flies, spies…” he tries. “Ah, _cries_! _Shoulders falling down like teardrops / Weakened by my soulful cries?_ ”

The happy smell intensifies, and Geralt rumbles low in his throat. It reminds him of the quiet evenings around campfires, the stars above, Jaskier composing and Geralt pretending to be annoyed by it. Jaskier has forgiven him for everything, his words, his thoughtless, almost cruel actions (cruel because they were thoughtless).

Suddenly, very far away, a door is opened, and Geralt tenses automatically. Jaskier notices at once, looking up at him. “What is it, darling?”

“Someone’s coming,” the Witcher replies, listening intently for footsteps. It’s more than one person, heavy steps – men, guards. He didn’t dare to hope that his behaviour would remain without consequences, and he was pretty sure that this is the consequences arriving.

“Ana?” Jaskier whispers.

Geralt shakes his head. At once, Jaskier disentangles himself from his embrace, and his skin aches with the loss of him.

“Don’t fight,” the bard hisses, framing his face with both hands, his eyes the shade of the sky just before sunrise. “Promise!” he adds forcefully, and Geralt gives a reluctant nod.

He doesn’t like it, but he knows it’s probably wiser to keep his head down for now.

Then, he smells the anger mixed with cruel determination and leaps into a defensive crouch despite himself. The king appears in all his kingly garments, his ermine cloak, along with his kingly guards. Geralt tenses, feeling the fight brewing.

This will not be pretty.

Suddenly, there’s a hand on his forearm, support and warning in one, and the Witcher forces himself to relax.

“I heard you injured my men, Witcher,” Vizimir comes to the point straightforwardly, “behaving like the wild animal you are.”

Geralt growls in response, and the king flinches, a healthy amount of fear in his smell now. It must be frightening to know that the Witcher is still more deadly in chains than any single one of his soldiers.

“I will not tolerate such behaviour.” The king makes a threatening step forward, his beautiful, impractical cloak dragging over the dirty floor. “We had a crystal-clear deal, mutant, so simple even an animal would understand it.”

Jaskier bristles at the insult but thankfully stays silent. Geralt feels his heartbeat accelerate with fear because the deal was indeed simple, rotten but simple.

“If you behaved, nobody would get hurt,” the king adds, his brown eyes gleaming with sadistic satisfaction.

Immediately, Geralt pulls the bard close. His body is a meagre shield, but he’ll use it. The king wouldn’t dare to hurt his daughter’s betrothed, would he?

A threatening snarl erupts from his throat when one of the guards unlocks the cell, and he feels Jaskier tense. His heartbeat is fast, but there’s no fear in his smell yet. That means, he hasn’t yet understood that by ‘nobody’ the king actually means ‘Jaskier’.

“Take the bard,” Vizimir orders.

“No!” Geralt snarls, curling himself around his friend, as if he could protect him that way.

“What?” Jaskier gasps. “What do you… Geralt, what…?”

Somebody kicks Geralt in the bruised ribs, and he stifles a cry. He can feel arms tugging at him and at Jaskier, but he can’t let go. Another kick breaks his fractured, half-healed ribs again, and Geralt closes his eyes.

“No, stop!” Jaskier cries, suddenly trying to extricate himself from Geralt’s embrace. “Stop hurting him.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt hisses, but it’s too late. Jaskier is ripped from his arms, and there are three swords pointed at his throat.

“You both are really fucked up,” the king snorts. “Sacrificing yourself for each other. Well…” He shrugs, in a gesture that means _the better for me_.

“You cannot treat your prisoners like this,” Jaskier snaps, still managing to look somehow dignified, even though two guards twist his arms on his back.

“I’m the king. I can do everything,” Vizimir replies, deadly calm, drawing himself up to his full height. He does look quite imposing – for a human. “And as such, I sentence you, _Jaskier_ , to punishment by whipping for…” A cruel smile tugs at the corners of his lips. “… impersonating a noble.”

Geralt growls a warning, but the tip of the blade at his throat silences him.

Jaskier kicks at the guards who hold him. “You can’t do this. I _am_ a noble.”

The king approaches him, looking him up and down. “Oh, _really_ , now? I don’t see a sigil ring on your finger or your coat of arms on your clothes.”

Jaskier splutters something incoherent, momentarily speechless by the injustice of it all.

“Nobody here can confirm your identity.” The king makes a sweeping gesture, encompassing all present. “And I seem to remember that you insisted on being called _Jaskier_.” He makes another step forward. “You’re in _my_ court, in _my_ dungeon, and I can do with you what I want. _Witcher-lover_.”

“Fuck you!” Jaskier spits, but Vizimir merely smiles, turning to Geralt.

“I always hold my end of a bargain. You should remember that for the next time.”

The Witcher stares at him with so much hatred and rage that fear flashes over Vizimir’s face. “You will regret this,” he threatens, voice like gravel.

He will rip Vizimir’s throat out, and if it’s the last thing he does. He will feed him poison, and break all his fingers, and skin him alive.

The king looks momentarily taken aback, but determination settles over his features. “I don’t think so.” He turns to look at the soldier next to him, and Geralt recognises him. He was part of the group from before. “How many of my men did the Witcher injure?”

“Fourteen, your majesty.”

“How many did he kill?”

“One, your majesty.”

Geralt frowns. Oh, yes. The one he choked… he might’ve crushed his windpipe. _Oops_.

Vizimir’s smile turns positively evil. “And how many of them do I need to replace as guards?”

“Half of them, your majesty.” The soldier directs a glare at Geralt, who doesn’t even blink.

“Half of them. That makes seven.” He nods to himself. “Well, then Jaskier. I sentence you to twenty-two lashes.”

Jaskier makes a strangled noise that tears at Geralt’s heart. Twenty-two. That’s a lot for such a soft creature like Jaskier. Regret and guilt settle like ice in his stomach. He shouldn’t have fought the guards. For every punch he threw, Jaskier will receive the backlash. He should’ve stayed calm and complacent.

Twenty-two.

Shit.

“Let me take his punishment,” the Witcher grounds out in a last-ditch effort to protect the bard.

Vizimir snorts a laugh. “Twenty-two lashes for a Witcher. I could double that and you’d take it, wouldn’t you? You don’t feel pain, mutant. Where’s the fun in that?” Shaking his head, he adds, “No. You apparently want to protect the bard. I think it’ll hurt you much more if I punish _him_.”

“You forget that it’s said that Witchers don’t have feelings,” Jaskier interjects, casting a quick glance at Geralt.

“Oh, yes, I heard that too.” The king waves his words away. “But, _obviously_ , he does have feelings for _you_ , bardling.”

Jaskier pales.

“Maybe, he’s an exception. A mutant among mutants. Maybe all of them have feelings. I don’t care,” he says offhandedly. “Now take him to the post.”

“No!” Geralt growls, but the swords prevent him from lurching forward, if he doesn’t want to impale himself on the blade.

A terrible thought enters his mind. Maybe he _should_ do it. Dead, he’d be no use for the king. Dead, he can’t be used as leverage.

But the thought of leaving Jaskier alone stops him. He can smell his panic now, hear his frantic heartbeat, but he stays unusually silent as the guards push him forward. All fight seems to have left him.

Or maybe he just follows his own advice, trying to make it easier for the Witcher.

Geralt’s mind races with a thousand escape possibilities as the soldiers unlock his chains from the floor. While they walk him out of the dungeon to a torch-lit courtyard, he stays silent and complacent on the outside, but, actually, he’s searching for weak spots. There’s a wooden door that leads to the outer walls. There’s a window, not very high, where they could crawl through. There are only two guards patrolling the exit…

His mind freezes when he sees the pole in the middle of the yard, firmly anchored in the ground, as if whippings are a regular occurrence here. Consciously, he knows what’s going to happen, but it seems that his mind hasn’t fully processed it yet.

Jaskier has stopped walking as well only a few metres in front of the whipping post, but the guards drag him forward, merciless.

“No! No, unhand me, you bastards! Don’t you dare… you… this is unjust punishment!” he yells, digging his heels into the ground.

The smell of his panic makes Geralt feel light-headed. He wants to break the hands of the soldiers who force the doublet and chemise over Jaskier’s head and tie the struggling bard to the post.

Meanwhile more soldiers have gathered, attracted by Jaskier’s yelling, and they whisper to each other, laughing. Geralt can’t hear a single word. He despises the smell of intent excitement, the desperate want for somebody else’s pain.

The soldiers push the Witcher forward until he stands only a metre away from the post to Jaskier’s left side, so he can see not only the bard’s face but also the marks that would appear on his bare back.

Night has fallen, and the torches cast flickering shadows on Jaskier’s pale skin. The night air is cool, and there’re goose bumps all over the younger man’s body, but Geralt is pretty sure his shaking has nothing to do with the cold. Jaskier breathes so rapidly that he seems on the verge of passing out.

“Jaskier,” he says lowly, and the bard’s head snaps around.

Geralt inhales deeply, puffing his chest visibly, and exhales loudly. He’s afraid to speak, so he tries to show Jaskier want he needs to do.

He seems to understand because his next breath is a little slower. Geralt can almost feel the effort it takes him to fight his panic, but he does.

A soldier steps forward, bowing to the king, sneering at Geralt, and finally turning to the bound man. Instantly, Geralt’s gaze zooms in on the whip in the man’s hand.

A riding crop.

Relief floods him, and he hates himself a little for it, but really – this is not so bad. A cat-o-nine would be brutal, extremely painful, and leave terrible marks; a riding crop, however, might not even break skin.

The king probably doesn’t want the bridegroom to bleed into his wedding suit.

“Begin,” the king says, and the man raises the whip.

There’s an almost audible tension in the air, a catch in everyone’s breath, a tingling anticipation –

waiting –

waiting for the terrible sound of leather on skin.

He sees Jaskier tense, pressing his eyes shut, and pieces of song lyrics, too low for anyone but Geralt to hear, tumble over his lips.

Then, the whip flashes through the air, and Geralt steels himself.

_Crack_.

Jaskier whimpers, losing the tune he’d tried singing.

_Crack_.

Geralt and Jaskier flinch both, even before the whip hits, the anticipation of the pain even worse than the pain itself.

_Crack._

_Crack._

Two hits quickly after each other, breaking the rhythm previously established. Another cry of pain breaks out between Jaskier’s clenched teeth, and the sound tears like an icicle into Geralt’s heart.

Jaskier never sounds like this.

Jaskier _should_ never sound like this.

_Crack._

The king was right. This is much, much worse than being whipped himself. Geralt feels like he’s drowning; his chest constricts and his breathing is too shallow and his head spins and something inside him aches, and burns, and chokes him.

Rage born out of utter helplessness boils in his blood. His limbs yearn for movement, for grabbing a blade and cutting, piercing, tearing, killing. The shackles around his wrist seem to weigh a ton, immobilising him, pulling him down, underwater.

_Crack._

A trembling sound like from a deadly-injured animal echoes through the courtyard, and it guts him. Geralt’s fingers dig into his half-healed wound until it bleeds, until the physical pain grounds him enough to battle the guilt threatening to consume him.

Jaskier’s eyes flash open, and Geralt can see the tears, the pain, the desperation, but also something else that he can’t quite identify.

_Crack._

The next hit lands, and Jaskier flinches forward, away from the man that brings him pain, but there’s nowhere to go. His blue eyes don’t leave Geralt.

“Out of the night that covers me…” he whispers, skipping right to the end, “… my unconquerable soul. Unconquerable. Unconqu…”

The man draws his hand back again. However, before the whip can lash down, a cry reverberates through the courtyard.

“Stop!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cliffhanger!! (*evil laughter*)   
> Who could it be? Ideas?


	5. After the Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier is rescued, Geralt broods, and Princess Ana strikes a deal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is little shorter, but I wanted to end on a positive note.
> 
> The lines from the poems are pretty well known, I think. She walks in Beauty by Lord Byron, and Ae Fond Kiss, And Then We Sever by Robert Burns

_The man draws his hand back again. However, before the whip can lash down, a cry reverberates through the courtyard._

_“Stop!”_

Everybody’s head turns simultaneously, as if the crowd was one being. Geralt recognised the voice at once, but it still feels unreal when he sees Princess Ana at the edge of the yard. She’s wearing a cerulean dress with gold embroidery, looking more regal than the king ever could.

Confused whispers and protest erupt among the soldiers who thirst for more pain, for blood and screams. Still, the crowd parts obediently before the princess who is striding purposefully towards the whipping post. Her long brown tresses reflect highlights of copper and mahogany in the firelight. Geralt can hear her heart beating as fast as a hummingbird’s wings, but her face shows nothing of her inner turmoil.

Fearlessly, she steps up to the executioner and wordlessly holds out her hand for the whip, a clear demand.

“Your highness, you can’t interrupt a punishment,” the man says, his eyes lowered respectfully but not letting go of his whip.

“I can, and I will, for this is my betrothed,” she replies firmly.

“Ana!” the king says sharply, abandoning his seat on the dais at the side from where he’d watched everything with a smug smile on his lips.

“Father.” The princess curtsies, a paragon of composure and elegance. Even though her voice is soft, everybody on the courtyard can hear her clearly. “I ask you to grant mercy to this man whatever his crimes may be. I _beg_ you to show clemency for he will be part of our family soon.”

The king’s eyes narrow. He obviously doesn’t enjoy being called out by his own daughter.

The princess speaks on, “But if you will not, at least grant me to take part of his punishment in his stead.” A collective gasp drowns out part of her next words. “… as is my right as his future wife.”

Jaskier strains his neck to look at her, his pain momentarily forgotten, surprise and hope warring on his face with something darker, something desperate.

Geralt clenches his fists, hating that she can do something that he cannot. He would take the pain, gladly, proudly, but he doesn’t want _her_ to get hurt for his mistakes. It’s quite a gamble the princess is taking, he thinks. But Ana stands as straight and steadfast as a rock between Jaskier and the executioner.

The king’s face turns to stone. There’re limits to his power, and this is one of them. In Redania, close relatives and spouses have the right to take the punishment of another, and even though the soldiers are loyal to him, he cannot completely disregard the law. However, to whip his own daughter would humiliate the royal family. (Besides, not even he might be that heartless.)

“I grant your appeal for clemency,” the king finally says, attempting to sound generous and pompous, but it comes out bitter and strained. He gives one nod at the executioner, then turns around and leaves before anybody can react.

Geralt lets out a breath of relief, ignoring the discontented muttering of the crowd. Jaskier slumps forward, leaning his forehead against the wood, his knees about to give in. His breathing is still too shallow and tears run freely down his cheeks, both of relief and pain. The Witcher twitches forward, yearning to move, to catch Jaskier, to support his body, to be close and provide warmth and protection – but the chains and the presence of the soldiers stop him.

Princess Ana meets Geralt’s eyes for a second, her breath hitching in her throat when she sees his injuries. The bruises must look horrid in the flickering light, the blues and purples almost black, and the blood dripping from the cut on his ribs is certainly not helping.

But then, she rushes towards Jaskier, grabbing his elbow and supporting him before the bard can fall down. His arms have been released from the post, but he seems disoriented, his feet unsteady, his eyes glassy.

_The shock_ , Geralt thinks and his fingers ache with the need to touch, wanting to reassure himself that Jaskier is okay. He feels the absurd urge to cradle the bard in his arms, to block the world out with his shoulders and tell him that everything was fine.

“Bring the Witcher to the healer, too,” Princess Ana orders in a voice that tolerates no dissent, and the one soldier who dares to open his mouth gets silenced with a glare.”Follow me!”

She leads the way through the labyrinth of corridors and stairs with practised ease, each of her steps decisive and long. Jaskier stumbles along next to her, clutching his doublet to his bare chest. Geralt has a perfect view on his back, and the red welts hit him in the chest like _Aard_ , but he forces himself to look at them, to memorise every line and every weal that blemish Jaskier’s soft skin.

Signs of his failure.

Finally, they enter a large room that smells strongly of herbs – sage, and lavender, and chamomile, and mint, and ginger. A fire in the hearth provides a comfortable warmth that is welcome after the night’s chill.

An older woman with salt and pepper hair looks up from her chair by the fire, leaping to her feet instantly when she recognises the Princess.

“Your highness.” She curtsies. Then, her gaze finds Jaskier, who looks pale and sweaty, and finally focuses on the Witcher. “Oh my…” she says, darting forward. “Put the Witcher on the bed over there. And, here, a chair for you, dear.” She pushes Jaskier down on a comfortable looking armchair by the fire. “I’ll get you a nice tea in a second.”

Then she moves around the princess towards him, and Geralt tenses instinctively.

“Release the chains,” she orders in the same voice Ana used before, demanding not asking. She’s a head smaller than Geralt, but the authority she wields makes her appear taller.

The guards exchange nervous glances. “Madam, I don’t think…” one begins.

“The Witcher’s a beast. Dangerous,” another says at the same time.

“Poppycock,” she hisses, turning to Geralt. “You won’t hurt us, will you dear?”

_Dear_. Nobody ever called a Witcher _dear_ – well, except Jaskier. Her lack of fear is so startling that Geralt can do nothing but nod, completely dumbfounded.

“See?” She smiles at the soldiers, all teeth no friendliness. “You can wait outside if it makes you feel better.”

“But…”

Their protests are cut short by a look from Princess Ana. “Do as she says.”

“Yes, your highness.”

Grumbling, one soldier produces a key and almost breaks Geralt’s wrist all over again with the rough way he treats him. This time, the Witcher allows a low snarl to escape his throat, and the soldier flinches so violently he almost drops the key.

For the first time, Geralt relishes in the sour smell of fear, in the trembling of the guard’s fingers, in the suddenly careful way he unlocks the shackles, and how he hastily jumps back as soon as the Witcher is free, afraid the Wolf might bite.

The shackles fall to the floor with a _clank_. His limbs feel weirdly light without the iron weight around them, and he rotates his wrists carefully, testing his range of movement.

“Please sit,” the healer says, gesturing at the bed, but Geralt hesitates. He wants to rush to Jaskier’s side, but, at the same time, he fears his presence might not be welcome. He got Jaskier whipped – he surely doesn’t deserve the reassurance a simple touch would give him. The bard stares un-seeing into the flames while the princess is kneeling next to his armchair, offering him some sort of tea.

“Jas- Jaskier first,” he rasps. His friend doesn’t even react to his name; he hasn’t, in fact, uttered a single syllable since he’d been freed – and that worries and terrifies Geralt more than his injuries.

“He was whipped,” he explains when the healer doesn’t move.

“And you’re bleeding,” the woman replies dryly, her gaze moving up and down his body, cataloguing the severity of his wounds, pausing curiously at some of the more horrific scars. Her interest is disconcerting, even if it’s purely medical.

“I’m fine,” he growls, glowering at her in a way that makes most humans flinch back and quickly hurry out of his way.

The healer, however, only rolls her eyes, muttering something about stubbornness under her breath; thankfully, she doesn’t start an argument but turns around and attends to Jaskier. Geralt watches her like a hawk when she touches the hurt bard; her movements are gentle but resolute. She helps Jaskier to lie down on the second bed and prepares a poultice for his back. The Witcher scans the ingredients carefully, sniffs the air for anything dangerous, but nothing seems amiss.

She talks quietly with Jaskier and the princess, but Geralt tunes out the sounds. Slowly, he sinks down on the bed, feeling as exhausted as he normally only does after fighting some kind of horrific monster. Jaskier’s now steady and calm heartbeat is incredibly reassuring, and Geralt can basically watch how the bard comes back to himself, how his eyes become clear and his mind returns from wherever it fled to.

Instantly, cornflower eyes scrutinise him, and Geralt is surprised by the relief and the warmth he finds in them – because he certainly hasn’t deserved any of these sentiments. Anger would be easier to bear than _this_. Anger would be natural – Geralt knows how to deal with anger. He doesn’t know what to do with... _gratitude_ that he hasn’t owned, with the fond expression on Jaskier’s face as if he’d been the one to save him.

It’s _his_ fault Jaskier got hurt. His fault. His fault.

Jaskier must see that, must understand that this is not something that can be forgiven.

The bard knows about the deal now, knows what a fucking mess Geralt is – and he’ll despise him, finally stop the hero worship he had going on. What kind of Witcher can’t even protect a single human from harm, especially if that human means the world to him?

***

Jaskier can almost hear Geralt brooding.

The waves of guilt and self-loathing that radiate off him are palpable, making Jaskier cringe.

“Geralt, I’m fine,” he says lowly, turning his head towards the Witcher while Mariam, the healer, applies the last bit of poultice to his back. It cools the burning marks on his skin, numbing the pain to a manageable level. The all-consuming panic had been almost harder to endure than the pain itself, but the fear is gone now, leaving him utterly exhausted. All his muscles are lax and heavy, and the familiar smell of lavender makes him feel protected and safe.

“Hm,” the Witcher grumbles his usual response.

“Is he always that verbose?” Princess Ana asks from where she is sitting, a cup of tea in hand. She looks a little pale and her knuckles are white around the cup, but her voice is steady, always steady.

“Unfortunately,” Jaskier sighs.

“You’ll be alright in the morning, dear,” Mariam says, patting his head. “A little sore but fine.”

“Thank you,” Jaskier replies.

The healer walks slowly over to Geralt. “May I help you now?” she asks, and Jaskier is impressed with how respectful she treats the Witcher.

Geralt hesitates and Jaskier almost expects him to protest, to mumble some nonsense about Witcher healing and deny himself the care he deserves. But then, he nods his assent, either because he knows that Mariam wouldn’t back down, or because he knows his wounds will heal faster with a little help.

“Tell me where you’re hurt,” the healer demands, pulling one of the candles closer. Jaskier bites his lips when he sees the new bruises the soldiers had left – and why is the wound at his side bleeding again? The skin around his wrists and ankles is raw and bloody, and there’re dark circles under his eyes from fatigue. He looks about as exhausted as Jaskier feels.

“My wrist might be broken,” Geralt whispers. “My ribs, I think. My jaw and nose are already better. Other than that, it’s just cuts and bruises.”

The clinical way Geralt lists his injuries feels like molten steel in Jaskier’s stomach, heavy and burning. He hates that the Witcher had to deal with so much pain in his life that this is nothing to him.

And Jaskier cried after a few whip lashes. _Pathetic_.

A movement from the corner of his eyes calls his attention, and Jaskier carefully turns his head towards the princess. She’s pressing one of her hands over her mouth and the look of utter horror is painted on her features.

Right. She’s not used to violence.

“Thank you for what you did for me,” Jaskier says to distract her while Mariam asks Geralt for permission to touch him – and because she deserves his thanks. He can’t believe how brave she’s been... to step between him and... the whip. His mind shies away from the memory and he takes a deep breath, anchoring himself in the lavender smell of the room.

Ana’s hazel eyes focus on him. “You sound surprised.”

Jaskier swallows. He was, still _is_. The princess could’ve so easily got hurt as well. For a stranger. Why would she do that for a _stranger_? She owes Jaskier nothing, no loyalty – even if he was to be her husband.

“Well, normally, we save the _princesses_ from monsters – not the other way round. And with that, I don’t mean monsters from princesses. That would be ridiculous, wouldn’t it?” He chuckles, but it sounds false in his ears. “All these dangerous princesses nobody warned us about …”

A quirk of her eyebrow stops his ramblings. “You think princesses cannot be dangerous?”

“Well, Geralt fought a shtriga once that _was_ a cursed princess…” Quickly, he cuts himself off. “Which is not what you meant.”

A suppressed hiss from Geralt makes his head turn, and he sees Mariam wrapping his ribs tightly. His golden eyes are distant, and Jaskier remembers how he clung to Geralt’s gaze, the only piece of warmth and light in a world consumed by darkness and pain and fear. He has no idea how he would’ve coped without his best friend.

“Why did you do it?” he inquires lowly without looking at the princess.

He hears the rustle of her clothes as she shifts. “I… I didn’t think you deserved it.” So simple. Then, “Did you?”

“No,” he whispers. “He did it only to hurt and control Geralt.”

The Witcher’s eyes turn sharp when he hears his name, and his gaze flickers between Jaskier and the princess, but he stays silent.

“Ah,” Ana sighs, as though it made perfect sense.

“It was reckless of you, your highness,” Mariam interjects, bandaging Geralt’s wrist with practised movements.

The Witcher growls in agreement. “He could’ve hurt you.”

“But he didn’t,” Ana replies lightly, too lightly, and Jaskier looks back at her. Her back is rigidly straight, everything about her perfectly self-controlled, and her face composed – too composed, which means she’s trying to hide her emotions. Jaskier knows that expression well; Geralt wears is all the time. “I know you think the king is a monster. But he’d never hit me. He’s my _father_.” Her voice cracks a little at that, but she hides it quickly with a humourless smile. “It wasn’t as reckless and brave as you might think.”

The firelight makes the golden embroidery on her dress gleam like sunlight dancing over the blue sky. Everything about her his bright and hopeful and strong, and Jaskier realises that that’s what she is – sunlight.

Sunlight and pure hope –

Ana materialised out of nowhere to save him, like a figure made out of light, something outside of this world of pain and suffering. The way she held herself upright, proud and unyielding, how she commanded the soldiers without hesitation, how she convinced the king to change his mind the only way he ever would... it _was_ brave.

There was a song in there somewhere, he thinks.

_But to see her was to love her; / Love but her, and love for ever._

_And all that's best of dark and bright / Meet in her aspect and her eyes._

“It _was_ brave, princess,” he voices his thoughts because she needs to know that. “I don’t know many people who’d stand up for what is right… just because it’s right.”

The girl stills. “Who says I don’t have an ulterior motive?”

“Do you?” Jaskier inquires, pushing himself up on his elbows to be able to see her better.

The princess stares into her tea cup, her fingers tracing the edge. “Maybe.” She bites her lip, finally meeting his gaze. “I didn’t think of it _then_ , but… you owe me protection now, Jaskier. I hope that – should we get married – you’ll remember what I did for you. You’ll remember to be kind.”

He blinks. It makes him feel a little sick that she feels the need to _ask_ that – as if he’d ever treat her cruelly. But then, she doesn’t know him, only knows his reputation as Casanova and travelling ne’er-do-well. Besides, she _is_ right, he supposes. He owes her. That also unfortunately means they can’t just leave her here should they try to escape.

Casting a quick glance at Geralt, who is applying salve to his bruises, he replies, “I will, princess.”

Her dark eyes scrutinise him, searching for a lie. Then, she nods. “Rest here for the night. This place is safe,” she changes the topic. “I’ll see about rooms for you in the morning.”

“Your father will not –”

“Don’t worry. I only have to threaten to tell Mama how he treated my future husband.” She smiles secretively, like a sphinx, and Jaskier knows there’s a whole story there. Then, she turns to Geralt. “Master Witcher, I… I profoundly apologise for how you were treated within these walls.”

Geralt’s jaw goes slack, his hands pause. Jaskier supposes it’s the first time anybody ever apologised and _meant_ it. “It’s not your fault,” the Witcher finally mumbles.

“Is it? When I did nothing to prevent it?”

The princess drops her gaze for a second, attempting to hide the wild emotions on her face, and neither Geralt nor Jaskier know what to say to her. Of course, it’s not her fault, but she doesn’t seem ready to believe them. And Jaskier really doesn’t have the strength to fight her demons on top of his own today.

For a moment, only the sound of the cackling fire and the rasping of the Mariam’s knife fill the uncomfortable silence.

Then, Ana looks back up, a forced smile on her face. “I suppose, I’ll see you tomorrow – if you don’t escape before that.” Her gaze searches his own, her hazel eyes so soft and pleading that something in his chest clenches. “Please don’t,” she adds, almost begging.

“We won’t,” he promises quickly, not knowing where the words come from. They’re true, nevertheless. If they’re escaping, they won’t leave her behind.

“Hm,” Geralt agrees, and it’s settled.

They leave with her or not at all.

***

A bit later, Jaskier and Geralt lie next to each other on the beds, which they’ve pushed together, the bard on his stomach, the Witcher on his side, watching him with an unreadable expression. Jaskier can feel the other man’s gaze on him like a weight, a _good_ weight, but he’s too tired to open his eyes to look at him.

The room is warm, his back is barely hurting, and Geralt is close. Their fingers are entwined, and Jaskier has the sneaking suspicion that the Witcher needs the touch just as much as he does. Warmth radiates into Jaskier’s limbs from that single point of contact, and he clings to it, clings to Geralt’s hand as though his life depended on it. He needs that closeness so desperately right now, like air to breathe and earth to stand on, and he’s grateful that Geralt gives it to him. He didn’t even have to ask – Geralt just took his searching hand into his own, rubbing soothing circles over his wrist.

“We could escape, you know?” Geralt finally offers, his voice so low that neither the soldiers outside nor Mariam next door can hear him. The bard understands all the things Geralt tries to say with these words, the loyalty he expresses, and he loves him a little more for it. He can almost see the apology lurking behind Geralt’s lips and casting a shadow over his golden gaze. He knows an escape would cost them, would cost Geralt – but he offers it anyway.

“We’d always be on the run,” Jaskier mumbles, tongue heavy with exhaustion. “And Ana…”

“Hm.” Geralt’s thumb caresses the back of his hand, reassuring, protective, and Jaskier drifts deeper. “I’m sorry, Jaskier.”

There it is, the apology that Jaskier had been able to read in all of Geralt’s movements before – if they were in the woods, there would be two skinned rabbits sizzling over the fire now, but since they aren’t, Geralt obviously feels the need to actually _say_ the words. And that tells Jaskier exactly how guilty the Witcher feels.

It takes an almost inhuman effort to lift his eyelids, but he must. The light is low and Geralt’s face is half-cast in shadows, his white hair almost glowing in the darkness. The Witcher’s golden eyes are so full of sorrow that it pains Jaskier to even look at him.

“Darling,” he whispers, pulling Geralt’s hand closer and placing a kiss on it without thinking. “There’s nothing to forgive. The king did this. Not you.”

Geralt hangs his head, as if he could no longer bear Jaskier’s gaze, agony etched into every line of his face. “The deal…” he says brokenly.

“It’s not a deal if you do not consent, it’s blackmail,” Jaskier interrupts him because he doesn’t want to know to what gods-awful plot Geralt had been forced to agree to. It doesn’t matter right now, and he doesn’t want to spoil the moment by getting angry. It’s more important to soothe Geralt’s anguish, even though it seems almost impossible. Physical pain, the Witcher can deal with. This… not so much. His coping mechanisms seem to be either to lash out or to hide everything so deep inside, to lock it away, to pretend it never existed in the first place – neither of them very healthy.

But Jaskier has to at least _try_ to reach him.

“You carry _no_ blame, darling,” the bard says firmly, squeezing Geralt’s hand. He doesn’t know how else to tell him, how to take this weight of his chest.

Geralt sighs and Jaskier knows that he can’t let it go just yet.

“I’m fine, Geralt. We’re fine. We’ll find a solution.” Jaskier closes his eyes again. “I’m so- …” he silences himself before he can say too much. This is not the place for his own self-loathing. (Would the Witcher have suffered less if he’d managed to stay silent?)

“Geralt, I...” he tries again, but words fail him. He’s too exhausted, feeling weirdly detached from reality, and his mouth longs for confessions that would only burden the Witcher more. He doesn’t want Jaskier’s love, Jaskier’s forgiveness, and it would be selfish to utter them, just to relieve the burning in his throat.

“Thank you for not leaving me,” he finally whispers, his voice strangled, because it’s vitally important that Geralt knows how grateful he is. He needs to know that his presence was the only thing that kept Jaskier sane.

Clinging to Geralt’s hand like a drowning man, knowing his touch will keep the nightmare away, Jaskier sinks deeper and deeper into unconsciousness.

Just before he falls asleep, he hears Geralt reply – more to himself than to Jaskier, “As if I ever could.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Congrats to everyone who guessed the identity of Ana, Jaskier's rescuer! Well done!! :)
> 
> Fun fact: I destroyed the keyboard of my laptop today because I tried to clean it. Note to myself: stop cleaning. It's not worth it.  
> (Now I need a new laptop. Great. But at least the old keyboard is clean, right?)
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed the chapter. More drama in the next...


	6. Ragamuffin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt finds a way to contact Yennefer, and Jaskier confronts him about. Things go south from there...

Mariam wakes them with breakfast the next morning. Sun streams through the windows, and Jaskier can see the blue sky from where he sits.

His back aches when he moves, but he feels better, refreshed.

The Witcher looks better as well. A full night’s rest have done him good. The shadows under his eyes are gone, the cuts are faded as if days old, and the bruises have gone from purple to an unhealthy green that looks ugly but actually means he’s healing.

“Do you think the Queen can convince Vizimir to not go through with the wedding?” Jaskier asks, taking a hearty bite out of the fresh bread with butter and honey.

“After the lengths he went to to organise it… not bloody likely,” Geralt replies, as small furrow between his brows. “Yen could tell him Princess Ana had chaos and then convince the king to let her attend Aretuza.”

Jaskier stiffens at the mention of his nemesis – oh, well, that might be a bit melodramatic, but given the circumstances, he thinks has the right to be. “Well, firstly, the great Yennefer of Vengerberg isn’t here. Secondly, if the princess had chaos, somebody would’ve noticed.”

“Hm,” Geralt grunts, taking a large bite out his bread.

Jaskier turns his head to look at Mariam, who’s quietly mashing some roots for a salve for his back. “Is there anybody the princess _would_ want to marry?”

Mariam pauses. “That’s not for me to say.”

“Ah, so there _is_.” Jaskier takes another bite, chews, and swallows before adding, “But it’s somebody of lower rank? A commoner? A knight? Or a far away prince?”

“You have crazy ideas, you know that?” Mariam snorts. “An exotic prince.” She shakes her head. “I can see why you became a bard.”

Jaskier smiles. “Why, thank you, madam.”

“It’s none of the things you listed, Jask,” Geralt throws in, and both Mariam and the bard look up, startled. His face gives nothing away, but Jaskier notices the amused tinkle of his golden eyes when he explains, “Witcher senses. I can hear her heartbeat.”

Instantly, the healer becomes interested, a look of awe on the face. “That’s _useful_. You could take somebody’s pulse by listening or pick up on a heart disease…” she interrupts herself, smiling a little sheepishly. “Never mind.”

“She’s right. Useful.” Jaskier grins. “Is it a person living in Tretogor? At court maybe?”

Mariam looks very determinedly at the roots, her face giving nothing away. Geralt cocks his head, watching her closely. “At court, I think… yes.”

Mariam winces.

“Oh, so… one of the nobles. A Count? A Duke? An Archduke? A Grand Duke? A Królewicz? A Marquis? A Baron? ... I’m just listing titles that I know. A Landgrave? Is that a real title?” He looks at Geralt, who only shrugs.

Before he can continue this line of interrogation, the door opens and Princess Ana enters, accompanied by two girls her own age. She wears a simpler gown than yesterday. Dark green, like the rainforest, with golden embroidered flowers at the hem.

“Viscount Julian, Master Witcher, may I introduce Countess Gabriela von Plessen and Baronetess Louise de La Grange d’Arquien, my ladies-in-waiting.”

The Countess is a tall, dark-skinned woman with broad shoulders and voluptuous curves. Her black curls are pinned up, and there’s a white feather in her hair, which wobbles as she curtsies. The Baronetess seems small and fragile in comparison. Her dark brown hair is almost completely covered by a bonnet, but one curl has escaped and frames her slender neck. She looks a little as if she’s run here, a constant pink under her tawny skin and a blush on her cheeks.

Instantly, Jaskier leaps to his feet, attempting to bow gracefully, but the sharp pain in his back makes it rather awkward. The memories scratch at the edge of his mind, but he pushes them down, down, down.

“My father wants to speak to you, Viscount. I will show you the way,” Princess Ana says rather coolly, but Jaskier suspects it’s due to the guards that linger outside. “Later, a servant will bring you to your room.”

“Thank you, princess,” he says.

“As for you, Master Witcher,” she says, turning to Geralt. “The guards will bring you to the guest wing. Your room lies next to the Viscount’s.” There’s a small smile on her lips, one that Geralt surprisingly mirrors.

Instantly, the guards appear. “Where are the shackles?” one of them asks gruffly.

“One of your men took them,” Mariam lies nonchalantly. Jaskier knows perfectly well that she hid them last night in one of her cupboards.

“He doesn’t need shackles. He’s a guest,” Princess Ana says sharply, causing the man to grimace. “He’ll attend the royal wedding tomorrow, won’t he?”

“As your highness commands,” Geralt says, bowing his head slightly. Jaskier raises one eyebrow at him, but lets it go.

A moment later, the guards and Geralt are gone, their steps swallowed by thick stone walls.

“How are you?” Ana asks, softer.

“Fine.” Jaskier smiles. “Thanks to you, princess.” He offers her his arm and after thanking the healer, they exit the chamber together. “What does the king want?”

“Well, what do you think?”

He sighs heavily. “The fucking wedding.”

Her fingers tighten a little around his arm. “The fucking wedding.”

***

Geralt paces up and down the room. It’s larger than the cell by far, airy, with big windows that let the light in. New black clothes lie on the bed, and a tub is waiting in front of the fire, but he can’t relax until Jaskier is safely back.

There are no bars on the window, but the jump to the courtyard is easily ten metres. Doable for a Witcher, but for Jaskier…?

He remembers the way here perfectly, knows where to turn to get out, but he forces himself to stay, to wait.

But he doesn’t like it.

Minutes pass, and all he can hear is a bird chirping outside and faint voices from downstairs. Then, finally, footsteps are approaching.

But not Jaskier’s.

However, they are so familiar by now that he doesn’t even stop his pacing, like a caged animal. He’s almost completely healed. His ribs are still slightly sore, but he won’t even feel them anymore tomorrow.

A knock sounds and, a moment later, Princess Ana and her entourage enter. The two girls smell slightly nervous, but they stay at their princess’ side.

“Master Witcher…” Ana begins, but he interrupts her.

“Geralt.”

“Excuse me?” She makes a step towards him, taking in his appearance, gliding over the old scars as if they weren’t even there. Huh. Unusual.

“Geralt of Rivia. That’s my name,” he explains.

A smile softens her concerned features. “Geralt, then. You look better.”

He shrugs, turning back to the window to look over the battlements of the castle wall to the city that stretches out below. “I heal fast, your highness.”

“Hm,” Ana murmurs, her steps coming closer. He can smell her perfume now, orange blossoms and… cinnamon. The heartbeats of the two ladies at the door accelerate slightly, nervous for the Witcher’s closeness to their friend. But Ana doesn’t seem to care.

“You thought I wasn’t going to stop you. Why?”

Geralt knows exactly what she’s talking about, remembering the moment in the cell. He sees her green dress from the corner of his eyes as she moves into his field of vision. His voice drops a little when he answers, unsure of how much he should reveal, “You want freedom. I respect that.”

Her closeness makes him nervous. Normal humans don’t dare to get so close – only Jaskier, and he’s hardly normal.

“But you can’t give it to me,” she states, stepping up to the window. She doesn’t look at him but at the endless blue sky over Tretogor.

“How could I?”

She smells a little sad just now, and he desperately wants to fix it, but how?

Ana swallows, her gaze determinedly fixed on a spot over the city. “I don’t suppose I could come with you?”

“I don’t suppose you would like that,” he replies evenly, and she sighs.

“I suppose you’re right.” Her hazel eyes flicker to his face before turning back to the view. “I’d like to travel. But I also want to _arrive_. I don’t want to marry. But I want a home and companionship and _love_.”

One of the other hearts skips a beat, and Geralt slightly turns his head to look at the ladies-in-waiting. Both of them look tense, ready to protect the princess from the evil Witcher, and he can’t tell who reacted.

“I want to learn and to use that knowledge,” she adds, her breath fogging the glass.

“What about Oxenfurt?”

She looks up at him. “What about it?”

“Why not study there? Get a profession, like Jaskier…” He winces. “Or, well, not exactly like Jaskier.”

Princess Ana chuckles. “I’m not made to be a bard.” Then, suddenly, her smile vanishes, wiped away by sadness. “I’m not made to be anything.”

“That’s not true,” one of the girls interjects. The Countess, Geralt thinks. “Don’t talk about yourself like that.”

“Gabriela…” the princess begins tiredly, as if they’d had this argument many times before.

But the Countess is not deterred. “You’re smart. You know your way around the nobles. You can make them do what you want. You can receive a king or duke or a commoner – you know how to speak with all of them. Your penmanship is beautiful. You know enough about trade to talk with a merchant, about war to talk with a soldier, and about politics to advise the king.” The girl steps forward, her onyx eyes flashing. “That is not _nothing_.”

The princess sighs but doesn’t turn around. The soft waves of her hair catch the sunlight, giving it an auburn shade. “And what good will it do me?”

Geralt watches the Countess – Gabriela – closely, notices the sad twist of her mouth, the little frown between her brows, the worry in her eyes. But she stays silent.

“I have a friend that might be able to help you,” Geralt finally proffers, and Ana’s head snaps back up.

“Help _Jaskier_ , you mean.”

He shakes his head, then stops mid-movement, and nods. “Both. She doesn’t particularly like Jaskier, if that reassures you. She’s a sorceress. She served at court for many, many years.”

“Why would a sorceress help me?” she challenges. “Our court mage doesn’t especially like me, if I’m being honest.”

“Well…” Geralt is thankful that the mutations prevent him from blushing. “She’s a friend… I hope.” At Ana’s questioning look, he adds, “We had a fight.”

“And sorceresses are well known for their forgiving nature,” the princess replies dryly.

That is true. Sorceresses are ruthless, known to hold a grudge for decades – but this is different. Yen may be mad at him for another _century_ – but she’d save his life in heartbeat.

“She’ll come if I ask,” he says firmly, no room for doubt.

Ana doesn’t seem convinced, a deep frown on her brow. “Why?”

Geralt swallows the emotions down. It feels like admitting a weakness, a secret locked deep in his heart, but it’s the truth. He’d fight and die for Yen – as he would for Jaskier. “Because I’d come if she asks,” he whispers, too low for the other two ladies to hear.

Princess Ana blinks, her lips forming a silent _oh_. “With _friend_ you meant… _oh_. And I thought Jaskier…”

“Jaskier _what_?” Geralt asks, confused. What does Jaskier have to do with anything? There’s a blush on her cheeks he doesn’t understand.

“Never mind,” she brushes his question away. “How do we contact her?”

Geralt hesitates, looking back over the shingled roofs of Tretogor. He trusts that Yen would come if he called her; she wouldn’t like it, but she’d come. But he’d need to deceive her – again.

Taking a split-second decision, he asks, “Do you have a piece of paper?”

***

“You what?” Jaskier asks, splashing water all over the floor as he jerks backwards.

He’d come back from the king unharmed but tired, and Geralt had offered him the first bath – his way of apologising for yesterday.

“I… um, I sent a message to Yennefer,” Geralt repeats from where he sits on the bed.

“I heard you the first time. I just thought maybe my brain had short-circuited or something… flogging can do that to you.”

Geralt winces, his gaze flickering to the welts hidden by the bathtub.

“Too early? Too early.” The bard nods to himself. “Really, Geralt, I thought you’d have learned from our last adventures with the crazy wi- sorceress. She’s not reliable. All she wants is power…” he rants, waving his hand through the air, and few drops hit Geralt.

“That’s not true,” he contradicts. Suddenly, he misses his swords. It’d feel wonderful to sharpen them right now, calming. Instead, he stands up and walks over to Jaskier. “She thought power could get her what she wanted… but it’s not power itself she wants.”

The bard looks up at him, a sceptical frown on his face. “And what would you call the almost-killing-me-and-you-and-herself-to-control-a-djinn episode? If it wasn’t for power, what was it for? And if you say _love_ , I’ll punch you,” he growls in a very good imitation of Geralt’s usual voice, but then he shakes the thought away. “Not that you’d _say_ ‘love’,” he mutters more to himself than to the Witcher. “Doesn’t make any sense. She’s not the loving kind. She’s no regard for other people’s wellbeing. She takes what she wants.”

“What do you expect? Nobody will _give_ her what she wants either,” Geralt replies more sharply than intended. He feels uncomfortable defending Yen, but he doesn’t like how Jaskier speaks about her.

“Wow, Geralt.” Jaskier throws one of his exaggerated angry expressions at him, his eyes suddenly like glaciers. “You’re wrapped up in her so deeply you can’t see clearly anymore.”

“And you hate her so much _you_ can’t see clearly anymore,” the Witcher snaps.

Instantly, Jaskier’s face falls, and something dark and honest flickers over his face, too fast for Geralt to catch. “I don’t… I don’t _hate_ her,” he whispers after a moment, biting his bottom-lip and glaring at the edge of the tub as of it had done him a personal wrong.

It’s hard to pick up Jaskier’s emotions under the smell of soap and lavender oil, and Geralt is surprised to find not anger but hurt.

Gently, he sits down next to the tub. He’s learned his lesson from last time, controlling his emotions. “What’s wrong, Jask?” he asks gently, dipping his fingertips into the bathing water. It had cooled down a little, and, with a controlled _Igni_ , he manages to heat it back up.

Jaskier splashes water in his own face, as if to wash away the feeling, and it drips down his hairs and jaw. “Nothing.”

“Please don’t lie,” Geralt tries again. He didn’t even need his Witcher senses to pick up on that.

“I…”Jaskier begins heatedly, but then sighs, all fight leaving him. “Why don’t you take the bath next?”

Geralt knows when somebody is deflecting, and he normally knows also when to push and when to let it go, but, right now, with Jaskier he isn’t sure. Something about him reminds him of balancing over a precipice – one wrong move, and they’ll both fall. So he decides to take a tiny step forward and see where it’d lead him.

“Will you help me with the bandages?” he asks – not because he can’t do it, but because Jaskier _likes_ helping him.

A smile spreads over the bard’s face. “Of course.”

Relief floods Geralt as he tugs the shirt over his head. So Jaskier isn’t _really_ mad at him. That’s good.

A moment later, Jaskier is wrapped in a fresh towel. His fingers are warm as he places them on Geralt’s chest, and the Witcher can feel goose bumps forming. It’s because of the tender skin, he tells himself, but a part of his mind isn’t so sure.

“Here you go,” Jaskier says, gently unwrapping the last bit of cloth from around his chest.

Geralt rumbles a ‘thanks’, quickly taking off his trousers and hiding in the tub. The hot water is soothing, causing a small sigh to escape his lips. Jaskier sits down behind him, close but outside Geralt’s field of vision.

“Should I…” the bard offers tentatively, and he nods. The smell of contentment rewards the Witcher instantly.

Carefully, Jaskier starts washing his hair, just as he’s done countless times before. Normally, with gore and blood involved and Geralt being so tired he couldn’t even lift a finger. It feels a little different now – because Geralt _could_ wash the hair himself – but he can’t put a finger on the feeling.

“What did you write her?” Jaskier asks after so long that he’s completely forgotten what they’d been talking about. Jaskier’s fingers massage Geralt’s scalp gently and he allows himself to lean into the touch – even though he shouldn’t, he knows that.

“Ragamuffin.”

Jaskier’s fingers still. “Raga- _what_?”

“A code. I guess, you don’t remember.” For a moment, the Witcher remembers the blood flowing over Jaskiers lips, the choking sounds, the weird feeling in his chest that almost felt like fear... Another instance where Geralt was directly responsible for his pain. Guilt kicks him on the chest like Roach on a bad day, and suddenly Jaskier’s touch is no longer soothing but burning. Hastily, he leans forward and Jaskier’s hands drop away. (He tells himself that he’d have lost his touch anyway).

Clearing his throat, he elaborates, “Yen used it for her enchantments in Rinde.”

Jaskier is silent for a long moment, but Geralt doesn’t dare to turn around. “Oh.”

Suddenly, bucket full of water hits him from above, washing the soap away, and he gasps.

“Well, that’s good. A code is good. What does it mean?” Jaskier asks conversationally, his voice carefully bland.

The Witcher wipes some remnants of soap from his eyes, pretending to be totally casual about it. “That either of us is in mortal danger,” he admits because Jaskier should probably know – right? It’s not an outright _lie_. They are in danger. Vizimir could change his tune any minute, and they’d be back in the dungeon, or whipped, or…

“You didn’t,” Jaskier hisses, stepping into Geralt’s line of sight. He’s still wearing only the towel, and in the bright light, Geralt can see the edges of the bruises on his back. “Well, I guess you didn’t have a code for ‘please come if convenient, and if inconvenient come anyway’. Or for ‘please save me from the evil king that has imprisoned me in his tower’. Or for ‘I’m in trouble and I need your help’.”

Geralt grits his teeth.

“Yeah, why would you?” Jaskier deadpans. “A Witcher doesn’t need help for pesky human problems. Now, she’ll come here, weapons drawn, ready to destroy monsters, only to find you…” he interrupts himself, his eyes narrowing. “Wait a moment.” He steps up to the tub, hovering over Geralt. “Did you say ‘either of us’?”

“Hm.”

“You did. You fucking did.” Jaskier sits down with a heavy thump, and Geralt is not quite sure if this is a good or a bad development. “Do you mean to say that Yennefer of Vengerberg, sorceress extraordinaire, would come to save _me_ from death?” Jaskier’s blue eyes widen. “Fuck.”

“She pretends she doesn’t care, but she does,” Geralt whispers, shifting so he faces Jaskier. “She was really angry at me for what I said to you on the mountain.”

“How do you… _oh_.” Realisation flickers over Jaskier’s face, and there is the hurt smell again, like burnt sugar under the pleasant scent of lavender. “Because you _followed_ _her_. Of course, you would.” Suddenly, he’s moving away, turning his back and hiding his face.

“Jaskier?” Geralt doesn’t quite understand what he did wrong.

Jaskier just shakes his head. He pulls the chemise over his head roughly, then a fresh doublet from his own luggage – crimson red – and the canary yellow breeches. He looks like an accidental splotch of colour in the grey, monochrome room.

“Do you need help to put the bandages back on?” Jaskier asks flatly without looking at him, and ice spreads in Geralt’s chest.

He screwed up.

He screwed up so badly that Jaskier hates him again.

He just doesn’t know exactly _how_.

Silently, he shakes his head, not trusting his voice.

Jaskier puts the white cotton back on the bed, then stalks straight past the tub to the neighbouring room, ignoring the bathing Witcher completely. His movements are stiff, his smell as he passes Geralt is a sharp, bitter mixture of grief, and pain, and anger.

The door falls shut with a finality that guts him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked this. Geralt can be so dense sometimes, right?
> 
> Next chapter: Yennefer!
> 
> Btw, can you recommend me any fics where Geralt and Yen talk after the moutain? I'd like to see how other authors spun the story. :)


	7. The Mutterings of all your Fears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of everything, truths are spoken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your comments and kudos! <3
> 
> Yennefer will not appear just yet (in the next chapter, though). Now we'll dive into Jaskier's mind! It will be dark - be warned.
> 
> The first song Jaskier sings is ‘Farewell Wanderlust’ by The Amazing Devil. If you don’t know them yet, go there right now and listen to their album. It’s Joey Batey’s band (the guy who plays Jaskier). I almost cried when I heard ‘Fair’ the first time – this is the second song Jaskier sings, by the way, almost at the end. ‘The Horror and the Wild’ has been my writing soundtrack (besides the Witcher OST) for most of this story. In fact, the title is taken from it.

Jaskier barely manages to reach his own room before he falls apart.

His things have been brought here, and all it takes is the empty lute case leaning against the wall to push him over the edge. He curls himself into the narrow space between bed and wall, his back to the door. Thus protected, he lets grief overtake him.

In Rinde, Geralt chose Yennefer over Jaskier.

On the mountain, Geralt chose Yennefer over Jaskier.

After the fight, Geralt chose Yennefer over Jaskier _again_.

That means… he’ll _always_ choose _Yennefer_.

It’s unfair that it hurts so fucking much, but it does. Jaskier will always come second, he will never be Geralt’s first choice in anything, he will always be left behind.

It hurts like somebody ripped his heart out of his chest, and Jaskier draws his knees closer, trying to hold the pain in, but the grief and hurt overtake him, roll over him, pull him asunder like the riptide, killing traveller after traveller at the coast. He stuffs his arm into his mouth to keep from crying out, bites down hard until he _feels_ it, but it’s still not enough to combat the agony in his chest.

Jaskier can’t breathe.

The room is too small but too open at the same time.

It’s too dark, but the light from the window blinds him.

The floor is uncomfortably cold and hard, but he wishes it were harder, colder, something that would anchor him in the reality.

The darkness in his minds pulls him closer; the abyss stares back at him until he can’t take it anymore.

_You’ll never be enough_ , it mutters.

_You can’t compete with a sorceress, you idiot –_

_Geralt would never choose you –_

_You are nothing, worth nothing –_

_All you do is bring him trouble –_

“No!” he screams so loudly, his voice is thrown back from the walls.

That’s not true. That’s not fair.

He tried. Doesn’t it count that he _tried_?

_And what can you give him? You’re not even a bard anymore_ , the voice in his head mocks, and it hurts _so much_ that Jaskier _screams_.

The empty lute case is still there, at the corner of his eyes, the corner of his mind. When he closes his eyes, he sees the flames devouring the beautiful wood; all the work that went into making the instrument, the Elven culture and their destiny inseparably interwoven with every little detail, all the songs Jaskier played on it, all the work, heart, and soul he poured into the music, the strings, the chords, the tunes – everything went up in flames.

Irretrievable.

The cruel voice in his mind is right – he’s _nothing_ , not even a bard anymore.

Why would Geralt keep him around after this? – Because he’s such a joy to be around? No, when Yennefer shows up, he’ll be back in her current.

Jaskier can’t even blame the sorceress for it. No really. She’s not to blame for Geralt’s choices – she didn’t make them.

It was always Jaskier who’d forced Geralt to choose between them, foolishly hoping the Witcher would see something in him – but Yennefer can give him things Jaskier can’t.

It’s not fair to hate her, to be jealous of her.

She didn’t make Geralt love her.

Jaskier throws his back against the wall, the pain enough to drive fresh tears into his eyes, but it’s not enough to drown the pain inside. His heart is breaking and he’s falling into the abyss and he’s sinking, drowning, suffocating –

because he loves Geralt.

He’s loved him for years.

And it hurts so fucking much to know that he’ll never be enough, his love will never be enough.

So Jaskier throws his back against the wall again, willing the physical pain to take over the agony that rips apart his insides.

Again.

And again.

Suddenly, there are hands on his arms, pulling him away, up on the bed, and he fights them like he’s seen the Witcher fight, with his whole body –

but then, the smell hits him. Lavender and…

“Stop. Jaskier, stop,” Geralt says, his voice piercing the fog around his mind, the mutterings of his fears, the screaming monsters in his head.

Jaskier freezes.

It’s Geralt’s hands that hold him, restrain him… it’s Geralt’s smell that envelops him…

Jaskier blinks through his tears and recognises the half-dressed Witcher kneeling before him on the ground, his wet hair dripping, his golden eyes intense, his hands still holding onto Jaskier, as if afraid the bard would disappear if he let go.

But Jaskier can’t bear the touch, the closeness that feels like a prison, bittersweet poison, luring him in, letting him forget the pain and the misery.

“Let go,” he rasps, his voice as husky as it’d normally be after hours of singing.

Instantly, Geralt obeys – and this loss of contact makes everything better and everything worse at the same time – and Jaskier scrambles backwards, away from him, until he accidentally crashes over the edge of the bed.

“Jaskier.” The Witcher rounds the bed in seconds, but Jaskier holds his hand up to stop him from approaching. He stands up, his chin lifted, much like the cat that fell from a wall and pretends that’s exactly where she wanted to go.

Geralt is poised on the balls of his feet, ready to jump forward, his palms facing the ceiling, as if to offer Jaskier his assistance, but thankfully he stays where he is.

“What are you doing here?” the bard asks, using all his skill to keep his voice from breaking.

Suddenly, Geralt looks uncomfortable. “I heard you scream… I smelled pain… and I was afraid….”

“I’m fine,” Jaskier says flatly.

“You’re not!” the Witcher snaps, almost angry. “Since when do you lie to me?”

“Because I don’t- I don’t want you to know!” Jaskier yells, unable to control himself any longer. Now he knows how the Witcher felt on the mountain, desperate to hurt somebody, _anybody_ , to hurt them as much as _he_ hurt. But all the angry, hurtful words die on his tongue, and instead, incoherent truths straight from his heart come out. “I don’t want you to see… _this_. I don’t want to tell you… and I would… but I shouldn’t – can’t… Who am I now? Tell me! I’m not a bard, and I’m not a Viscount. I’m dead… I’m drifting, and you…” _just stand there_. But the words won’t come out.

_Can’t you see I need you?_ Jaskier wants to ask, but instead bites so hard on his bottom-lip he draws blood.

“You’re still Jaskier,” Geralt tries, but the bard doesn’t want to hear it. He’s not. Jaskier has a lute, a beautiful Elven lute. Jaskier knows how to talk and can write the most beautiful songs and charm everybody into loving him. Jaskier doesn’t get whipped. Jaskier doesn’t fall apart.

So he turns away. The Witcher won’t understand, never understands.

“ _And you_ , you said. What did I do?” Geralt whispers, clearly trying to fill in the gaps in Jaskier’s speech.

A bitter laugh escapes Jaskier’s throat. “It’s what you didn’t do or maybe what you will do. You think I’ll just wait here until you leave me behind again – because, fuck, I will. _Loyalty_ …” he says with contempt, “see where it brought me?”

Something terrible crosses Geralt’s face, but Jaskier is gone too far to care.

“I’ll just watch when you’ll choose Yennefer again, even though I try _so hard_ …” Too late, he realises what he’s revealing, and instantly, he tries to take the words back. “Fuck, I didn’t – forget what I said. Fuck. It’s not a problem.”

“It clearly _is_.” Geralt makes a step towards him, and Jaskier feels cornered. The bed is to his right, blocking his escape, and the door is behind Geralt. The Witcher seems to be thinking really hard, piecing something together Jaskier doesn’t want him to piece together. “It’s what I said before… that I went after Yen…”

“Shut up!” Jaskier snaps, but it comes out breathless and weak.

Of course, Geralt doesn’t listen. The one time that Jaskier would wish for silence – but no, he has to keep this horrible conversation going. “But why…? I don’t understand.”

“You wouldn’t, would you?” The bard’s voice is bitter, a bitterness that leaves an acidic taste in his mouth, and he wants to hide so badly, but he can’t. Geralt is like a bloodhound now that smelled the injured prey. He won’t let go.

“I apologised.”

Jaskier nods, still not looking at Geralt because he’s afraid that one look from these golden eyes might coax the truth out of him, and he’s not ready to admit the truth yet.

Geralt makes another step, and Jaskier can feel his warmth now. “Do you… what do you need from me, Jaskier?” he asks lowly, his voice strangely fragile.

_I need you to need me. I need you to want me. I need you to choose me. I need you to love me._

Jaskier clenches his teeth. “I need you to let this go.”

“No.”

Abruptly, the bard turns around, ready to –

he doesn’t quite know what. Attack Geralt? Scream at him? Run away?

But there’s a vulnerability on Geralt’s face that stops him. They are so close that Jaskier can see every drop of amber in the gold of his eyes, framed by the coal of his lashes, the little scar over his eyebrows that keeps his features from being too handsome to be real.

“I realised something that hurt me, okay?” he admits, still trying to deflect while giving the Witcher enough of the truth to satisfy him.

“About Yennefer?”

Jaskier closes his eyes. Why can’t he let it go? “Yes,” he replies because it’s not entirely wrong.

“Why would that hurt you?”

“Geralt…” he begs because he just can’t take it anymore. He knees feel weak, and he leans against the wall for support. His defences are crumbling under Geralt’s gaze. He wants to tell him everything just to see what happens, to throw it out into the open and see if it’ll hold up against the harshness of reality.

Maybe he can let it go then.

Yennefer told him to let it – him, Geralt – go, on the mountain. He’d sat in the camp, trying to get the dwarfs to tell him the story just to realise they didn’t know anything. But, in reality, he’d been waiting for Geralt to come back, to give him a nod and maybe carry his backpack as apology.

Geralt hadn’t come.

Yennefer’s words echo through Jaskier’s mind, as if she was here. “Why are you still loyal to him after what he said? Why do you let yourself be treated like… you have to let him go, Jaskier.”

But he couldn’t, can’t – by god, still can’t – maybe he never will.

“It’s not a competition,” Geralt says slowly. “I care for both of you.”

His mouth acts before he can control it. “But you choose her. When it comes down to it, you’ll choose her.”

Geralt frowns, his mouth opening silently. He’s so close to the truth that Jaskier can already see it in silver letters between them.

“I didn’t do it to hurt you,” the Witcher finally says, as if that was the point in all of this. “It seems, though, all I do is hurt you.” His gaze flickers to his wrists where the marks of the shackles have almost disappeared.

Jaskier can’t stand the self-loathing in Geralt’s gaze. That’s not what he’d meant, what he’d wanted to say. “No, darling. That’s not…” His knees give out under him, and he slides down the wall.

“Jaskier?” Geralt calls alarmed, on his knees in seconds, his hands hovering over Jaskier’s shoulders, afraid to touch him again.

“I lost my lute, Geralt,” Jaskier begins to explain slowly. “I lost something that makes me _me_. I no longer – I…” He pulls his shaking fingers through his hair. “I lost my dignity. I lost control over… _everything_.” He can still feel the lashes on his back, every hit taking something from him that he didn’t know he possessed. “And then you said the thing about Y-Yennefer, and I realised that I’ll lose you too. I have to let you go… because it’s her you want. Not me. Never me.” He stares at his knees when he finishes, his voice almost inaudible. “And then, there’ll be nothing left of me.”

That’s it. He bared his soul. Now it’s Geralt’s chance to destroy him once and for all.

And he does – but not the way Jaskier expected.

“You won’t lose me,” Geralt growls, his hands gently gripping Jaskier’s shoulder.

Of course, he’d say that, always trying to be so fucking good. Jaskier lets the words ricochet from his walls, wills them to have never existed – because if they exist, he has to engage with them, and he can’t. Whether it’s the truth or not. He can’t do it.

“Look at me, Jaskier.” Geralt’s voice is deep, raw with an emotion Jaskier can’t discern, and his tone is so compelling that Jaskier can’t help but comply. The bard takes a deep breath, lifting his head. Geralt’s eyes are like magma, so intense he almost has to look away again to not get burned.

“You. Will. Not. Lose. Me,” Geralt says, putting emphasis on every word. “I’ll go to the coast with you if that’s what it takes for you to believe me.” The corners of his mouth twitch slightly, but when Jaskier doesn’t react, he turns serious again. “But I do not define you, do not want to… have power over you. You are still _you_ without me, and you are still Jaskier without the lute.”

Jaskier just stares at him, wide-eyed and speechless. The words sneak through his defences, shatter his walls, and he believes them – _Melitele help me!_ – he believes them. He won’t lose Geralt after all, he won’t lose his friendship, and he won’t lose his support.

“Fuck,” the Witcher curses. “Words are not my language, Jaskier. I mean…”

“I understand,” the bard says because he thinks he does. Geralt _sees_ him, sees the person underneath the cheery bard, thinking it someone worth having around. He _believes_ in Jaskier when Jaskier himself has lost that belief, that surety, that self-confidence that carried him forward all his life.

Beneath the fragments of his life, there’s still something that is unmistakably _Jaskier_. He forgot that – or he lost it in the pain. He isn’t sure. The bard he was, could be – will be – still is, by god, still is.

_I am still me_ , he screams at the abyss. _You won’t ruin me. I am stronger than you. I’ll rise._

“Let me finish,” Geralt pleads. “Yennefer. That…”

Jaskier winces. This is the part he’d hoped Geralt would forget. It was enough to know that the Witcher wouldn’t just leave him like a piece of broken tack. It was enough to know that he valued him. It was enough that he showed him the way to his self-confidence again. With or without Elven lute, Jaskier would always be a bard.

But Geralt just speaks on, forcing the words out with what seems like an inhuman amount of effort. “I can’t lose her. I can’t let her self-destruct. I can’t… you think she’ll destroy me, but… _fuck_.”

“You love her,” Jaskier states flatly.

Geralt blinks, slightly surprised, as if the concept of love was foreign to him. Then, something in his eyes changes, the confusion vanishes from his frown, and Jaskier has the sinking feeling that the Witcher has connected all the dots, all the missing pieces in his rambling.

“But that… Jaskier, please…” The fingers on his shoulders tense, then relax again on the exhale. “Why do you think…? It doesn’t mean that I don’t…” He takes a deep breath, bracing himself, “… that I don’t love you.”

The words fall like a small stone on the flat surface of a lake, creating waves that reach even the furthest shore.

“You – she – _what_?” Jaskier stutters. He desperately wishes for some silver to check if Geralt has maybe been replaced by a Doppler or something. Because that can’t be true.

Geralt of Rivia said he _loves_ him.

L-o-v-e-s – loves, like _loves_!

Maybe not the way Jaskier loves him with the fiery passion that takes his breath away, the butterflies in the stomach, the need to touch that is painful sometimes, but he does love him.

Geralt’s eyelashes flutter shut. “Don’t make me chose.” His fingers dig deep into Jaskier’s shoulders, holding him, as if _he_ is afraid to lose _him_ – but the bard barely feels it.

“I won’t, dear heart,” he whispers, leaning forward and threading his fingers through Geralt’s wet hair. Because he’d been wrong. The Witcher didn’t choose, not really.

Everything is so clear right now, like the air after a thunderstorm, that Jaskier can’t believe he didn’t see – feel, smell, taste – it before.

Did _he_ choose when he loved and lived with the Countess de Stael? Did that diminish what he felt for Geralt? – _No_.

Geralt loves Yennefer.

And Geralt loves Jaskier.

And that is okay.

Jaskier’s heart flutters with the endless possibilities, finally healed, finally whole again. Geralt filled the hole inside him so easily, so smoothly that it’s almost ridiculous.

The bard is not his second choice, his consolation prize, the travel companion he can’t get rid of; he doesn’t have to measure up to the sorceress or compete with her… they can coexist in whatever form… well, _maybe_. They’d have to figure that out at one point. Not now, though.

Now, they’d need to get out of this mess, preferably alive and unmarried.

Suddenly, Geralt huffs a laugh, his breath ghosting over Jaskier’s face.

“What?” the bard asks, thinking he should maybe put some space between them but his body doesn’t seem to want to move away.

“I think I understand something the princess said to me,” he replies, leaning his forehead against Jaskier’s.

Jaskier doesn’t ask and the Witcher doesn’t elaborate.

He doesn’t dare to shift, afraid Geralt might take is as a cue to move away, and he doesn’t want to lose his touch. He wants this moment to stretch on forever, without the realness of reality rearing its ugly head.

Slowly, the bard feels a little like himself again.

And finally, _finally_ , lyrics flow over lips, lyrics he’d desperately searched for during the flogging, lyrics he thought he’d lost forever.

“I promise you I’m not broken  
I promise you there’s more  
More to come, more to reach for, more to hurl at the door  
  
Goodbye to all my darkness, there’s nothing here but light  
Adieu to all the faceless things that sleep with me at night.”

***

Geralt lifts the bard onto the bed in one swift move while half-sung-half-whispered lyrics flow over his lips.

A part of him wants to flee this room, this castle, and find a monster to kill in order to gain some clarity, some perspective, on all this. But Jaskier’s fingers are curled tightly into his hair, and he makes a pathetic whimpering noise when Geralt tries to move away, and the Witcher stays despite himself. He puts an arm around the younger man’s shoulder and is rewarded instantly by a cold nose that snuggles deeper into the nape of his neck.

Jaskier’s cheeks are still slightly damp from crying, but he doesn’t smell sad anymore.

The way Jaskier had screamed before – like he _never_ screamed, not during the flogging, not during a hunt – had been the most terrifying sound he’d ever heard. He’d been out of the tub and in his trousers faster than his mind could process everything, pure muscle memory urging him to protect, protect, protect, his hands searching desperately for a weapon that wasn’t there.

Just before the door, reason had kicked in and he’d paused. There was just one heartbeat on the other side – no monster, no soldiers, just Jaskier all by himself.

But then, the bard screamed again, so raw, and broken, and desperate, and full of heartbreak, that the Witcher _had_ to react. So he eased the door open, silently, carefully, to not startle Jaskier. The smell of pain that had been somewhat muffled by the door hit him like _Aard_ in the chest. The bard hadn’t even smelled like this during the flogging, and he was crying, sobbing so bitterly, uncontrollably, that his whole body shook with the violent force of it.

“Jaskier?” Geralt asked quietly, but the younger man didn’t seem to hear him.

Shit.

The Witcher should’ve expected this. Most humans didn’t just get over a flogging in a single night – hell, most Witchers wouldn’t, and they had experience with pain. But it wasn’t only the pain, it was the evilness of it – someone intentionally hurting you – the loss of control, the fear, the helplessness.

However, this was not only a flashback.

Then, Jaskier pushed his tender back with malintent against the wall in way that hurt Geralt just by _watching_ it.

“No.” The word was out of his mouth before he could stop it, but Jaskier was so caught in this soul-crushing pain that he seemed to perceive nothing outside of it.

So Geralt stopped him, and, well… things went downhill from there.

The Witcher sighs, nuzzling his nose in Jaskier’s hair, soaking in the lavender smell to chase away the memory. He hates the way Jaskier fled from him, hates the way he had to watch him unravel without being able to do anything.

But Jaskier is fine now. He smells fine, almost content, warm, safe, fruity – like home. They say home is the place where the heart is, then he’s home now. Home beside him.

Geralt isn’t exactly sure where the words – _love you_ – came from. Jaskier drew them out from somewhere so deep inside that Geralt hadn’t even known that they were there.

But they are true.

Terrible, weak, raw, dark… but true, nonetheless.

And, apparently, Jaskier feels the same. He’d said it often, loudly, in a way that Geralt never heard, never understood – until now.

He understands being afraid of losing everybody, of being abandoned by the one person that should love you unconditionally. That’s why he’d forbidden himself to form attachments for so long.

But Jaskier and Yen… they had snuck into his heart, ingrained themselves on his soul so deeply he’d never get rid of them even if he tried.

He knows that Yen is not truly lost to him. They have a long time to find a way back to each other, a long time for Geralt to show her that he’d never intended to control her and never would. Jaskier, however…

Geralt knows that one day he’ll lose the bard. Because he’s human. And humans die – of old age or of monsters, it makes no difference. One day, Geralt won’t be able to save him.

And then, the world will be a very bleak, desolate place – like in the poem Jaskier wrote in the cell. _The world was void, / Seasonless, herbless, treeless, Jaskier-less, lifeless— /A lump of death—a chaos of hard clay._

And Geralt will follow the Path to his own demise.

“You know I love it when you brood, but please don’t overthink this,” Jaskier whispers, his fingers caressing a sensitive spot under Geralt’s jaw.

“Hm,” Geralt agrees, pressing the bard a little closer. Maybe thinking about the end before it had begun _is_ overthinking it a little.

The Witcher just wants this so bad, he wants it all – like Yen put it – but he knows that he can’t have it, doesn’t deserve it. A man like him who did things, saw things, created monsters – that man doesn’t deserve Jaskier.

But, weirdly enough, the bard doesn’t seem to care about that. He just gifts him his love, his friendship, his songs, his presence, without questioning if Geralt is really worthy of it. Or maybe Jaskier thinks he _is_ – worthy of that, he means.

What a strange thing to think.

“What do we do when Yennefer arrives?” Jaskier asks finally.

Geralt doesn’t want to think about that just now. “Don’t know,” he whispers, resting his head on Jaskier’s. “Can we just… can we just _be_ for a little while?”

The bard smiles against his neck. “Of course, dear heart.”

The endearment spreads warmth in Geralt’s chest, and he makes a happy rumbling sound.

Jaskier’s fingers comb through his still slightly wet hair, humming to himself, finally finding a tune he likes. Then he adds lyrics that seem to come straight from Geralt’s heart:

“It’s what my heart just yearns to say  
In ways that can’t be said  
It’s what my rotting bones will sing  
When the rest of me is dead  
It’s what’s engraved upon my heart  
In letters deeply worn  
Today I somehow understand the reason I was born.”

Geralt swallows audibly, emotions choking him. Jaskier’s voice is so fragile, a little breathy, breaking in all the right places.

If Witchers could cry, he thinks he might just do it right now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I loved writing this chapter, and I hope I got the whole complicated mess with their feelings right. Tell me what you think, please! *puppy eyes* :)


	8. Dark Promises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yen receives a call for help from Geralt. The "life-or-death" situation is not what she expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is me trying to fix what (mess) the show made of Yen’s character. I didn’t like that she suddenly, out of nowhere, wants to be able to get pregnant. I didn’t feel that it was explained at all. Yes, she wants it all, sure. For me, it felt a little like they were only giving her this baby wish to make her a ‘good’ female character because women want babies, right?! They needed some character motivation for her, and sure, what else would a powerful, independent woman want but a baby? It felt forced, and too fast, and just too much deus ex machina.  
> So, I tried to explain this a little in a way that would maybe make sense.
> 
> Please don’t hate on Yen. The show needs some strong female characters. Why can’t she and Jaskier both be awesome? Why do they have to be pitched against each other? That was just soooo textbook. Uh, the evil femme fatale that destroys the hero. Geralt deserves more friends, good things, and Yen could be a good thing.
> 
> So, well, there are a lot of the author's personal opinions reflected in this chapter. Please, bear with me and enjoy the drama! :)

When the message reaches Yennefer, she’s half-way through Toussaint on her way to the Fiery Mountains. She’s heard of a magical well that granted wishes and youth and beauty… and maybe, it’d grant her something that has been taken from her.

She wipes the mixture of sweat and red dust from her brow, cursing herself for travelling south this late in summer – the air is practically boiling – when something changes in the atmosphere, warning her a split-second before the piece of paper appears in a flash of purple magic.

Yennefer catches it out of the air easily and unfolds it.

There’s only one word on it, but it’s enough to make her heart beat twice as fast and let cold shivers run down her back despite the heat.

_Ragamuffin_.

Geralt had never used their code before, and the sorceress knows he wouldn’t do it without reason, just to find her or talk to her again. So he or the bard got themselves into a mess which they won’t get out without her help.

Without thinking, Yennefer hides her travelling gear under a cloaking spell next to a stone, checks the silver dagger, the silver sharp hairpin hidden in her up-do, the second dagger in her right boot, the tiny blades hidden in her belt. She’s not prepared any poison bombs, and she doesn’t have time to gather any other supplies – this is as prepared as she ever will be.

Then, she curls one hand around the single strand of long white hair that’s interwoven with the leather of her choker, stolen from Geralt when he’d been sleeping in Rinde. It’ll allow her to locate him wherever he is.

She concentrates on their connection, readies her chaos, and throws a portal open.

The scene that awaits her on the other side is not exactly what she’d expected. No gruesome monster’s ripping into Geralt, no villain’s holding the bard at knife point, no roaring army, no flashing swords – nothing even remotely dangerous.

Yennefer doesn’t even have time to be relieved about that before anger floods her bloodstream. Geralt and Jaskier are curled up on a bed, in what seems to be a fairly domestic scene.

_What the hell?_

Geralt must have sensed her presence even before she arrived because he’d shifted slightly in front of the bard. His chest is bare and Yennefer can see fading bruises and half-healed cuts on his skin. So maybe his call for help was not completely for nothing.

She takes in his appearance within the blink of an eye, his lack of weapons, the faint tear tracks on Jaskier’s cheeks, the finely-made but old tapestry on the wall, the smell of musty castle and old linen.

“What the fuck?” she asks because that effectively sums up the situation. Her hands sink to her side, but the chaos still swirls in her fingertips, ready to portal them to safety.

“Yen,” Geralt greets her. No ‘Yennefer we’re captured in a cursed castle that has placed us under a love spell – help us’. No explanation. Just _Yen_.

“Why did you call me?” she hisses between clenched teeth. If this was a play at getting her to forgive him, she’d turn him into a _slug_. The Witcher did what nobody had ever survived doing – controlling her, chaining her to him.

“Um…” he begins eloquently, and Yennefer’s eyes narrow.

“Nice to see you, too, Yennefer. How are you, I hear you ask?” Jaskier says with a false cheeriness in his voice. “Well…”

However, the sorceress is not in the mood for small talk. “I didn’t talk to you, bard!” She makes an aggressive step towards him, relishing in the slight flinch that she provoked. “Actually, I _did_ want to talk to you,” she reconsiders, menace making her voice low and angry. “How _dare you_ write that song about me? I’m not some _femme fatale_ set out to destroy Geralt.”

“Are you sure? With the black dress, the lipstick, and the whole sex-vibes…” Jaskier waves his hands through the air.

“I’m not one of your fantasies, bard,” she hisses, her purple eyes flashing. “Besides, Geralt is the one who bound me to him, not the other way round.” She turns her head slightly to direct the full force of her glare at the Witcher.

A muscle in his jaw twitches, too composed to let his mask slip, but she knows her words hit home.

Content, she turns back to the bard. “But, I guess, that didn’t make a good story, did it?” she asks, a lethal smile on her lips. She lets her hips swing as she moves forward, and instantly both their gazes wander down her body before they snap back to her eyes. So predictable. Slowly, she leans forward into Jaskier’s space, offering him a good look into her cleavage, but he’s too paralysed to take the offer. “If you wish…” she begins, grabbing his collar and pulling him forwards, “I can destroy _you_ with a kiss.”

Jaskier’s eyes widen almost comically, and her grin widens. “I haven’t turned anybody into a toad in years. I could use the practise.”

“Ah, I… um…” the bard stutters. “Geralt, help me.”

Yennefer laughs, letting him go.

Jaskier flinches back, scrambling away from Yennefer and hiding behind Geralt, who rolls his eyes. They both know that Yennefer wouldn’t have hurt him. She just likes to scare him a little.

“I’m sorry, Yennefer,” the bard apologises hastily. “I’ll write you a better song, okay? A… a heroic one. _The Sorceress and the Dragon_ … or so. Please.”

She snorts, pushing her dark curls over her shoulder in a well-practised move. She doesn’t want a song. She doesn’t need a song. Besides, she knows perfectly well that _Her Sweet Kiss_ is not only about her, it’s also about Jaskier and the Witcher – actually, the song is such a blatant love declaration that she’s surprised Geralt hasn’t picked up on it. But when had Geralt ever picked up on _anything_?

“So, where is this mortal danger I’m supposed to heroically save you from?” she bites out, changing the topic. Her gaze sweeps deliberately through the room, as if looking for a monster. “Under the bed?”

“Um…” Geralt begins again, still sitting on the bed with Jaskier, like a couple. Everything about him just makes her _so mad_. He’s tense, his muscles iron-stiff, but it’s not because of any danger – it’s because of her. She’s the danger in the room.

Did he really call her here for no reason?

That thought makes her even madder, and she interrupts him, “No? So thanks for wasting my magic. I’ll be going now.” She half-turns, but then looks back at Geralt. “If you ever pull a stunt like that again, I’ll _gut_ you.”

This time, even the fearless Witcher flinches, filling her with a cruel sort of satisfaction. He’s right to be scared of her.

“Please, don’t go!” the bard calls before she can open the portal, and there’s something desperate in his voice. “ _Please_. I’m being forced to marry Princess Ana of Redania.”

Yennefer stills, turning slowly back to look at them.

“Tomorrow,” he adds. “The king captured Geralt to use him as leverage against me. The guards beat him. I was whipped.” His voice shakes a little and Geralt tightens his hug imperceptibly. Huh. “And the king wants to force Geralt –”

The Witcher interrupts him with a grunt.

“We need help,” Jaskier finishes, trying to smile at her.

The sorceress needs a moment to process his words. So Geralt’s injuries are not from some sparring match with a monster? The danger wasn’t over? But…

But.

They are not in mortal danger.

Fuck, the Witcher deceived her again, tricked her into coming, _manipulated_ her. He just couldn’t help himself, could he? Admittedly, this situation was bad – but it was not a life or death situation.

Why? Why does he need to play games?

“And that didn’t fit on the message you sent me?” she asks, her voice quieter. The rage still burns in her stomach, but she’s exhausted by it. She’s always angry these days, and now, she feels just disappointed.

Geralt moves from the bed in one fluid motion, his hands held up, as if apologising. His cat eyes a pleading with her.

“Would you have come?” he responds just as softly.

Yennefer clenches her fists, controlling the rage – mixed with bitter disappointment – that his words provoke, burying it deep down. This rage isn’t her. She carried it ever since the mountain, threatening to control her. But she promised to herself she’d never be controlled. 

Does Geralt _really_ assume she wouldn’t come for him if it wasn’t a matter of life-or-death, even if he needed her? Does he think her that heartless?

(He’s the only person she’s ever allowed behind her shield, behind the cold mask of indifference or the seductive spiel. She thought he knew she had a heart.)

However, Geralt’s body language tells her something different. There’s no anger in his features, his eyes like molten amber. _Maybe_ his words hadn’t been an accusation? _Maybe_ they say nothing about what he thinks of _her_ , but more about what he thinks of himself? He has this need to fix his own messes, rejecting help because he thinks it’d make him dependent – they are similar in that matter.

“Doesn’t matter,” she brushes his words aside. She wouldn’t forgive him that easily, even if his words said more about his own insecurities than about her. He knows she despises being used, and he did it anyway. But since she’s here, she might as well play saviour. “Get your stuff. We’re out of here.”

“No!” Jaskier says, leaping off the bed.

“No?” she repeats incredulously. “This is a joke, right?” Her eyes wander between Geralt, who crosses his arms, unmoving like a rock, and Jaskier in his usual bright clothes, looking just as determined. Obviously not a joke. “Explain.”

So Jaskier explains.

His words don’t do much to calm her anger, but they at least direct it in a different direction. How could the King of Redania dare to mess with her bard and her Witcher? She _hates_ court. All these manipulative assholes, the lies, the intrigues, the games… she’s so sick of it all.

She’d craved the power of an important post at court during all her time in Aretuza. She craved – still craves – respect as if she were starving; respect, and appreciation, and acceptance, and – well –love, all things she’d thought she’d gain through power, only to realise that she’d been fooled.

She was feared not respected.

She was used not appreciated.

She was tolerated not accepted.

Power had given her nothing.

It had taken her failing to protect someone who was innocent to realise that.

So Yennefer turned her back on all the politics and decided to claim back the price she’d paid for power. She’d given up everything for everlasting beauty – a mistake. Both the price and the beauty. Nobody sees beneath the surface anymore.

However, beauty is a weapon, a weapon she wields without hesitation.

Again, the sorceress regrets that Geralt hadn’t told her more in his message. She could’ve prepared better, worn her battle outfit for court – red lipstick and low-cut dresses, not this dusty travel gown. It’s made out of a light, slate-coloured fabric, with long, see-through sleeves, going up to her neck to protect her skin from the sting of the sun. Of course, it looks good on her, showing off her curves – like all of her dresses – but it’s not what she’d have chosen to wear. (It is a little too light for a castle like this, and she feels the draught whistling through the old window frame. She’s not a Witcher who’s gifted with a disturbed heat perception, after all.)

“So Geralt called you,” Jaskier concludes, elbowing the Witcher, which didn’t impress the man in the slightest. Grumbling, Jaskier rubs his elbow. “What he means to say is…”

“I knew you wouldn’t like it,” Geralt interrupts him.

Yennefer lifts an eyebrow. If that’s supposed to be an apology, it sucked. “But you did it anyway.”

The Witcher nods, grimacing slightly. “I’m sorry I had to deceive you. I didn’t do it to hurt you.”

Yennefer searches his gaze, wondering if they’re still talking about the message. This whole episode must’ve really done a number on him if he apologised so readily.

The sorceress, however, isn’t ready to forgive him for any of it.

She can’t admit yet that she might’ve needed his help with the djinn. Perhaps she’d have defeated the spirit, after all, gaining back what had been stolen from her – the ability to conceive a child.

Yennefer doesn’t really remember when she realised that something was missing from her life, when her plan had started to take shape – on the beach with the dead princess, or before that? At first, the intention had been to get back what had been taken from her, but then… a child would love her just because. A child would respect her, and appreciate her, and accept her for who she was. And suddenly, a child had seemed like the only way to get all she ever wanted. She’d been obsessed with the thought – still is, if she’s being perfectly honest. Why else would she trudge through Troussaint in summer?

However, all her plans failed, pulling her deeper and deeper into dependence. The djinn had only been one step of many, but the one that hurt the most. 

Part of her knows that Geralt uttered his wish to save her, not to capture her. The problem is that it makes no difference.

He just waltzed into her life, offering all the things she wanted, the things she thought she couldn’t have – and when she’d finally let herself believe that she could indeed have everything (even without a child), the dragon had revealed that none of it had been real. She’d been coerced by magic, the worst betrayal she could think of.

(Even if she cast one of her lust spells, every participant gave her oral consent.)

It had been so hard to let the shields fall, to let Geralt in piecemeal. This is the reason his betrayal had hurt so much more. Yennefer knows that she can never let him in again; she’ll fight these false feelings to death.

The Witcher just makes her so angry, and frustrated, and scared, so damn scared – because it _feels_ real. Even now, when she sees him standing there, she can feel the attraction, the ridiculous urge to push a strand of hair behind his ears, to smile a secretive smile at him, to move towards the window just to feel his eyes on her hips.

But she stays upright, a marble statue.

Yennefer won’t let the magic win. She’s her own person, she’s in control.

“So… here we are,” Geralt finishes somewhat lamely when she doesn’t react to his apology.

“Here we are,” Yennefer repeats, her face giving nothing of her feelings away.

“Will you help us?” the bard asks, his cornflower eyes hopeful, as if she could present some magical solution that would solve the whole mess and make everybody happy.

For a long moment, she considers his question. She doesn’t really want to interact with Geralt more than necessary, but she’d regret not helping them. Independence is vitally important to her, so how could she watch when that was taken from her… acquaintances?

The sorceress nods. “Yes.”

Relief flickers over Geralt’s face, and Yennefer is not sure how she feels about that. “Thank you,” the Witcher sighs, as if this conversation had exhausted him.

“Yes, thank you, o mighty sorceress.” A smirk plays over Jaskier’s lips. “Just out of interest. Do you two have any other codes?”

Yennefer smiles wickedly. “Oh yeah, there’s also _apple juice_ , which means Geralt is desperate to get laid.” She winks at him.

Geralt grimaces as if there was a sharp stone in his shoe sinking into his flesh with every step. _Good_. He doesn’t deserve to be too comfortable around her. Jaskier turns to look at the Witcher, then bursts out laughing – rather hysterically, if she’s being honest.

“I don’t know what you think I’ll accomplish here,” she says when Jaskier finally stops doing his terrible mockery of a real laugh. He seems a little unhinged, a little frayed around the edges. He moves too carefully, always aware of where she is, where Geralt is, and how far it is to the exit, but his eyes never wander over to the lute case at far wall. He unconsciously mirrors Geralt’s movement, shifts when he does, trying to keep the Witcher between him and the rest of the world.

But it’s not only Jaskier. The nervous, restless tension that Geralt emanates is driving her crazy, like he wants to burn the whole castle down – and she wouldn’t mind, would even join him, if it wasn’t tempered by this softness in his features when he looks at Jaskier that hasn’t been there before, a protectiveness in the way he angles himself, putting his body as shield between the door and the bard.

Huh.

Yennefer doesn’t exactly want to know all that happened here – _whipped_ , for Melitele’s sake? – or what happened between them, but it seems they worked out their problems. The bard is annoying as fuck, but he’s also good and kind and joyful. It had taken her a while to see how precious his friendship with Geralt is.

And it seems Geralt has finally realised that, too.

“Well…” Jaskier shifts his weight a little. “We thought you know court. You might have an idea what the princess could do, something we can offer Vizimir, something prestigious.”

Yennefer snorts. “Sure. Because there’re so many prestigious things a woman can do in a man’s world.”

Jaskier opens his mouth, pauses, and snaps it shut again. Wise decision.

“She’s smart and strong and bold,” Geralt says, giving her an almost-smile as if to say, _just like you_. And she hates that her heart jumps at that.

“Even worse. What is a woman to do with that? She’ll not be satisfied in any marriage we might be able to arrange.” Yennefer shrugs.

Jaskier makes a step forward, his blue eyes determined. “No. We’re not marrying her off.”

“Oh, look at you,” the sorceress mocks. “Champion of the weak. Is that the wise old age talking or the guilt because she’ll be chained to an unfaithful vagabond?”

“Vagabond!” Jaskier puffs his chest out at the insult. “And I’m not old!”

“Sure you are. There’s a grey hair at your temple.”

Jaskier’s hand flies to his face before realising the trap, and then, he half-glares-half-pouts at her. She’s sure others might find it cute.

“No marriage,” Geralt interjects before they could continue their ribbing. “Her lady-in-waiting said she knows how to talk to people, to nobles, to commoners. She’d be a good advisor.”

Yennefer scoffs. “And which court will accept a woman who is not a mage as advisor?” She shakes her head. “She’s too highborn for that, anyway. It’d be treason to send her to a different kingdom.”

“Hm.”

“Look, I appreciate your valiant effort to save the poor girl, but if King Vizimir wants to get rid of her…”

“That’s not it!” Jaskier interrupts. “This marriage is a contract made with my father, and he’s honouring the contract – he’s forcing _me_ to honour the contract.”

Geralt growls, so lowly, so automatically, that Yennefer thinks he’s probably not even aware of doing it.

The sorceress raises a sceptical eyebrow. “And you think we can talk him out of the contract?”

“Or…” Jaskier bites his bottom-lip. “Well, you’re pretty frightening, you know?”

Yennefer smiles lethally, enjoying the flicker of fear in Jaskier’s eyes. “Don’t you know it, darling.”

“Yen,” Geralt warns her, and she rolls her eyes.

“Fine. We threaten the bastard. Step one. What then? Whisk the damsel off to a far-away place to find her knight in shining armour and true love?” She can’t help but be sarcastic about all this.

“She already is in love,” Jaskier pipes up, a broad smile on his face. “We just don’t know who.”

Geralt shifts slightly, almost imperceptibly. _Interesting_. He knows.

“Doesn’t matter,” the sorceress brushes it away, slowly walking to the window while considering their options. The view is familiar, even though she’d never been at Redania’s court. The grey castle walls, the splotches of green where some weed had found a spot to grow, the dark shingled roofs that stretch out below, the shadows of the hills on the horizon, looking much closer than they really are.

“You’re right in so far that we need to offer the king something. What would be better, more advantageous than a marriage to the honourable Viscount de Lettenhove?” She glances at the bard. “Your lands are rich, Jaskier. Your county is economically important to the king.”

“How do you…? – Never mind,” he cuts himself off. “I can still offer her protection… and Geralt’s protection, I suppose.”

The Witcher hums in response.

“That means we have to show the king first that he messed with the wrong bard and the wrong Witcher.” Jaskier’s tone is positively feral, and Yennefer hides a smile. Vengeance is a job she can help with.

Even Geralt’s lips twitch, his sharp wolf fangs obvious, and butterflies erupt in Yennefer’s stomach. He’s too handsome when he’s mad.

Quickly, she speaks to hide her reaction, “Okay, step two: repeat step one. Good. What about the girl? Does she want to stay here at court? She could be Vizimir’s advisor.”

Jaskier looks at Geralt who shrugs.

“You haven’t asked her, have you?” Yennefer grumbles. They were deciding a girl’s fate without consulting her. Ignorant assholes.

Surprisingly, Geralt replies, “She told me she wants freedom. She wants to travel but not forever. She wants knowledge. She wants a purpose. She doesn’t want to marry.”

Yennefer lifts one eyebrow – not so ignorant, after all – then turns back to look over the city. A purpose for a smart princess. Tough.

For a moment, she wonders what life the dead princess, daughter of Queen Kalis, might’ve led if Yennefer hadn’t failed to protect her. That thought twists something in her chest and she quickly pushes it aside.

“Yen?” Geralt asks and she hears him move.

Abruptly, the sorceress turns around again. Geralt stands suddenly too close, the bright daylight highlighting every scar, every muscle, every bruise, his hand half-lifted as if to reach for her. She wants to hurt somebody dearly for the damage that had been done to him – she’s not petty enough to wish him pain, even though he hurt her terribly. However, it’s not her place to enact revenge for him, to protect him. These feelings she has are _not real_.

“It’s adorable of you both that you think girls can become anything they want in this world. It doesn’t matter how far down the line of succession she is – she still has to marry. Her purpose is to be a piece of jewellery, a mother, that’s it.”

“Queen Calanthe is no piece of jewellery,” Geralt contradicts, and something painful flashes over his face. Right, the Child of Surprise. Another punch in her face.

“And still, she had to marry,” Yennefer retorts.

Geralt clenches his jaw, looking away. She’s right and he knows it.

“Why does it matter?” Jaskier throws in, exasperated. “The heir apparent is married, her other sisters are married – she can be the exception. I’ll take her in at Lettenhove if her brother, the future king, will not have her here. She’ll be protected. I don’t understand the fuss.”

_Because you’re a man_ , she wants to snarl, but it’s not his fault, so she simply turns back to the window, trying to collect her thoughts. It‘s true that women nowadays are allowed slightly more freedom than when Yennefer was born. They can be aldermen now, they can own houses and land, they can hold office. So what would be an advantageous position at court that would allow the princess the freedom she so desired?

Carefully, she thinks back at her own time at court, goes through every interaction, every political debacle…

Gasping, she turns around. “I have an idea.”

***

“Cut the bullshit, Geralt,” Yennefer says, opening the clasp that fastens her short black cloak at her shoulder. It falls to the earth with barely a sound. She steps over it, walking towards the tub. “What did you not want the bard to say? What does the king want from you?”

Geralt clenches his teeth, staring determinedly at the door that connects the two rooms. Jaskier is on the other side, launching Phase One of their plan. Geralt’s bruises are hidden by a fresh shirt, and she mourns the loss of the view a little, but, at the same time, she’s relieved. His naked chest has more effects on her than it should have.

Her dress rustles as she slips out of it, and Yennefer relishes in the way his shoulders tense a little more. It’s good to know that he’s affected by her.

(She’d learned early that sex was a fairly useful way to manipulate men who thought they were actually manipulating or using her. But Geralt is different – or so she thought. Now, she’s not so sure anymore.)

“I need to know everything if I’m to help you,” she adds, suppressing a sigh when she sinks into the hot bath, the water the perfect temperature. It feels good to wash the dust and grime and sweat of the last days off her body.

Geralt turns his head slightly in her direction, showing off his gorgeous cheekbones, but he doesn’t dare to turn completely. Well, it’s not like he hasn’t seen every line of her body before. Nudity doesn’t make her vulnerable. (Emotional closeness does.)

Slowly, she lifts her leg, so the water sloshes against the tub wall and her perfectly shaped calf is on display. Water runs over warm bronze skin, enticing, seductive. Quickly, the Witcher turns back to the door, and she smirks. She likes punishing him a little.

“It’s not important,” Geralt replies, his voice like gravel.

“Geralt,” Yennefer snaps, losing her patience. This was not a matter of simply disregarding his own needs and wellbeing – any secrets could damage their plan.

The Witcher sighs.

“It’s not just the marriage contract. The king wants something else,” she deduces, leaning a little forward. Suddenly, she wishes he wasn’t so far away. She’d like to see his face.

“May I turn around?” the Witcher asks, as if reading her thoughts.

Yennefer sinks a little deeper into the tub, so the ends of her curls dip into the water. Without waiting for a verbal reply, he turns, his golden eyes fixed on her face. His pupils are a little larger than usual, and the heat of his gaze makes goose bumps run over her body.

Damn.

Suddenly, Yennefer does feel a little vulnerable, but Geralt never looks away from her face, even as he approaches.

“I’m not sure what he wants,” he rasps, lowering himself to the floor to not tower over her, still a few steps away. “He’s cunning and ruthless.”

Yennefer shrugs. “He needs to be to make it at court.”

Geralt inclines his head in a gesture that means, _maybe, but I still despise it_.

“You’re not just here as leverage, are you?” the sorceress asks, scrutinising his face for every little reaction.

_There_ – his eyes flicker away for a split-second.

“Of course. I’m sure there’re tons of people he could’ve used as leverage against the bard. So…” She cocks her head. “He wants you to hunt something – _someone_?”

The lines around Geralt’s mouth deepen.

“Shit,” she says, leaning back against the tub. “Do I want to know who?”

Geralt’s jaw clenches and unclenches. “No,” he grunts, and the sorceress knows it’s bad.

“Let me think… Redania… they constantly squabble with Temeria, but…” Unconsciously, she cups some water in her hand, letting it drop slowly back in the tub. “And everyone’s nervous about Nilfgaard, I suppose.”

“Yen, leave it,” the Witcher says sharply, and she looks back at him. He’s glowering at her and his fists are clenched in his lap.

“Fine.” She rolls her eyes. “It’s your funeral.”

“I wouldn’t have done it. I don’t… I’m not an assassin,” he snarls, his eyes flashing. If the king could see him know, he’d probably think twice about blackmailing the Witcher.

“Butcher of Blaviken, Geralt,” she reminds him quietly, even though she knows the full story. “That’s what people see.”

Geralt growls, frustrated. “It doesn’t matter. As soon as Jaskier is free, he’ll regret… _everything_.” There’s a promise in his tone, a promise of pain, and vengeance, and blood.

Yennefer curls her hands into her fists, but she’s sure he can hear her too fast heartbeat. Why does he attract her so much when he’s feral? It’s not fair.

“Is there a way we can use that against him?” she asks, her voice carefully level.

“Hm,” Geralt grunts, considering her question. “Nobody would believe the words of a Witcher, so his plans are safe. _But_ …”

Yennefer’s stomach twists – in a _good_ way – when he looks at her, a slightly crooked smile on the face, his eyes like frozen gold – cold and dangerous and deep, pulling her in.

“But _he_ will never be safe again,” he whispers, his voice low with menace.

Yennefer swallows audibly, beginning to oh so casually wash her hair when she’s in fact hiding her face. It’s not fair how much she desires him. It’s not fair how easily he broke through her defences without even trying. The smell of expensive soap mixes with the lavender steam of the bath water, grounding her in the present.

_Focus, Yennefer!_

If the king thought that Geralt could assassinate a probably important and protected person, he had to know that the Witcher could just as easily assassinate _him_. Maybe they should work that into their plans.

The king has to know that if he puts another toe out of line, he’ll be done for.

“Yen,” Geralt breaks the silence, his voice back to his normal gruff baritone. She knows without looking at him that his features will have softened, all smooth marble and too warm eyes. “Thank you for helping.”

She hates how his voice makes her feel, how his fiery eyes can pierce her soul, how he can sound so genuine and open and vulnerable, breaking down her protective walls with the flutter of his lashes.

“I’m not doing it for you,” she snaps, retreating to anger to disguise her vulnerability. Quickly, she dives underwater to wash the soap out of her hair, hoping he might use the chance to flee. But when she breaks the surface, her inky hair straight and heavy with water, he’s still there.

Geralt meets her gaze, trying to communicate something with his eyes that she doesn’t understand. Why is he still here? What does he want from her?

Suddenly, the words he said when he found her after the mountain shoot through her mind. ‘You _know_ that magic can’t fabricate love where there’s none.’ What a cruel thing to say, trying to manipulate her once again, claiming she loved him.

She didn’t. She doesn’t.

She’s infatuated by him, attracted. That’s it. Without the djinn, he’d have been a meaningless affair, them using each other to take the edge off. And that would’ve been fine.

But no, he – _he_! – has to talk about feelings and _love_ , for Melitele’s sake!

“I know,” he says after such a long moment that Yennefer has almost forgotten what they were talking about. “I appreciate it anyway.”

How dare he use this openness, this goddamn honesty, against her? Where are his usual barbs? She can’t deal with this soft version of Geralt that she normally only meets after sex.

‘You _know_ that magic can’t fabricate love where there’s none.’

“You’re wrong,” Yennefer hisses. Suddenly, she’s standing over him, water running in rivulets down her deep brown skin, which is flushed from the heat of the bath. Geralt’s eyes widen, only flickering for a second past her collarbones before returning to her face. “What you said – you’re wrong!”

Slowly, the Witcher rises to his feet, every move careful and deliberate, yet graceful. “I don’t understand.”

Yennefer steps out of the tub, proud, with her head held high. Puddles of water form at her feet, and the floor is uncomfortably cold, but she doesn’t care. Her skin is so warm from the bath that it’s almost steaming.

“I’m not in love with you.” Her tone is icy, designed to hurt.

And it does. Geralt’s face turns to stone as his mask slams back into place, but not before she could catch a glimpse of… _something_ in his eyes. His jaw is working silently, as if trying to force out words, but they don’t come.

They stare at each other a second longer – gold against purple – before Geralt turns around and leaves the room in three long slides.

Yennefer exhales slowly, reaching for the towel to wrap her body in warmth. Her heart is beating fast with the powerful sensation that she barely escaped with her life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was incredibly hard to write. I wanted to do Yen justice! :)  
> Please, please, could I have some feedback?


	9. Like a thief in the night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yennefer and Jaskier set in motion Phase One of their plan. Geralt hadn't known there would be so much climbing involved.  
> But when have their plans ever worked out?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the nice comments on the last chapter! They made me happy! :)
> 
> For this chapter, I did way too much research on medieval windows (they didn’t have any glass panes) and the early modern age (where they had glass panes, but they often couldn’t be opened) and ended up using none of it because otherwise the story wouldn’t work. The usual author's dilemma, I believe... 
> 
> Anyways, enjoy!

‘ _I’m not in love with you.’_

Yennefer’s words play over and over in Geralt’s mind while he pretends to listen to Jaskier’s plan, making the appropriate grunts at the right places.

He couldn’t tell if it was a lie, still can’t. Her eyes had been cold and cruel, and her voice flat, and Gerald could detect only the barest hint of anger underneath the heavy scents of soap and lavender, and her pulse had been too fast to begin with.

 _But I’m in love with you_ , his wounded heart wanted to reply, but he couldn’t. One confession per day is enough. He couldn’t lay himself bare like that in front of her. It was not the right moment, the right place. The sorceress clearly hasn’t forgiven him, and normally, he’d find her stubbornness amusing – but couldn’t she see that he saved her fucking life?

“Hello… Geralt. Continent to Geralt.” Jaskier snaps his fingers in front of his face, and, slowly, his cat-eyes focus on him. “You haven’t listened to a word I said, have you? – Don’t answer that, I can see it on your face. Well, doesn’t matter. I’m the brain and you’re the muscles. It’ll be fine… just look very dangerous and _very_ threatening.”

The Witcher narrows his eyes.

“Yes, perfect. Well done.” Jaskier almost pats him on the shoulder but thinks better of it at the last second. “Do you practise in front of a mirror sometimes or can you just turn it on like that?”

A muscle in Geralt’s jaw twitches as he glares at the bard.

“Oh, oh. That’s brilliant!” Jaskier says with a bright smile. “Exactly like that, darling.”

Geralt rolls his eyes, secretly amused, and leans back against the headboard of the bed. Jaskier looks better. There’s a spark in his blue eyes that speaks of life and mischievousness; a spark that was crushed yesterday; a spark that, with time, would become a fierce fire again. That’s the Jaskier who wished apoplexy on a rivalling bard. That’s the Jaskier who will destroy the King of Redania.

“What?” Jaskier asks, pausing. Damn. He noticed Geralt staring.

Geralt grunts noncommittally.

“Oh, we’re back to not speaking again, are we? Fine, fine.” Jaskier sighs dramatically. “I can be silent, too.” He settles at Geralt’s side and the Witcher can’t suppress the fond smile that sneaks on his face.

Three.

Two.

One.

“I’m hungry,” Jaskier groans. “I’d thought I’d be treated better now, fit for a princess’ fiancé… not that this room is even remotely…” Jaskier leaps from the bed and strides over to the hearth. “I mean, have you seen the layer of dust everywhere?” He traces his finger along the mantelpiece and it comes back black and dirty. “Ugh.”

Geralt turns his face away to hide his smile. Jaskier’s disgusted face is so exaggerated he can’t help but laugh at it. They’d stayed at worse places.

“At least, the bed is moderately clean,” the Witcher offers. “Not that we’ll be sleeping much…” He pauses when he sees the grin on Jaskier’s face. Then, the bard _winks_ at him. Finally, the second meaning to his words register, and he groans.

“ _Jaskier_.”

“Yes, darling? What were you saying about not sleeping?” the bard asks innocently, walking over to him, a cheeky smile on the face.

Geralt is saved from responding by the door to the adjoining room being ripped open and Yennefer storming in like a mini-tornado. “I’m sorry to interrupt your little tête-à-tête, but we have a king to threaten.”

The Witcher winces. Her scent crushes over him like a wave, but it’s all wrong. Too much lavender, not the lilac and gooseberry combination he longs for.

Jaskier straightens, turning to look at her. “Yes. Here’s the list. Bring some food with you, will you?”

“I’m not your errant girl,” the sorceress snaps, ripping the piece of parchment from his fingers and scanning its content. “Yes, I can do that. Don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone.”

Before either of them can respond, a portal snaps open and Yennefer is gone.

“So, um…” Jaskier slowly turns back to Geralt. “Where were we?”

The Witcher shifts under Jaskier’s gaze, feeling suddenly like an especially beautiful piece of jewellery with the way the bard’s gaze travels up and down his body. He’s not used to being looked at like that. Normally, people’s stares are filled with hate or disgust.

Out of the blue, a tiny portal flashes to life and two apples shoot through in short succession, hitting the bard in the gut.

“Aw,” Jaskier groans, doubling over, and Geralt can’t help the chuckle that escapes his throat.

“Well, you did ask for food,” he points out, an amused tilt to his lips.

“Shut up!” Jaskier throws him an apple that he easily catches.

The fruit is fresh and sweet, tasting like summer, fresh air, and freedom. With a twisting feeling in his gut, he remembers all the times he stopped at apple meadows, so Roach could snack some fresh fruits. He never minded carrying the extra load if it meant his horse could have the treats she deserved.

Roach. He hopes his chestnut mare is fine. He’ll need to get her when they leave this place.

That reminds him…

“Jaskier,” he begins carefully, and the bard stops chewing.

“I don’t like that look. What does that look mean?”

Geralt bites into the apple, stalling a few seconds before answering, “It’s something that Yen said.”

“Then it can’t be good,” Jaskier says instantly, slowly sitting down on the other end of the bed opposite Geralt. The Witcher doesn’t like it. This way the bard is closer to the door than he is. “You looked like she kicked your puppy when you came back from your ‘conversation’.”

“Hm,” Geralt grunts. The bard isn’t entirely wrong. He _felt_ a little like she kicked his puppy. “She said something like… I should prove to Vizimir how dangerous I am.”

Jaskier frowns; a bit of apple juice is running down his chin and he wipes it away with his sleeve. “Doesn’t he know already?”

Geralt shifts again, eating the rest of the apple with one bite. “Probably.”

“You’re deflecting,” the bard says sharply, blue eyes piercing him. “Tell me, Geralt.”

The Witcher sighs. Why does the stupid bard have to be so perceptive? Normally, he could hide his expressions better than that. “The deal…”

“Yes?” Jaskier asks pointedly when Geralt doesn’t elaborate.

“The king wants me to... kill somebody,” he states bluntly, not daring to look at Jaskier, afraid of what he would find. “And I’m not sure if I’d manage to withstand his…” _persuasion techniques_ , lingers on his tongue, but he holds it back. Jaskier doesn’t need to know how much Geralt would give up for him without thinking – everything, fucking everything. “Well.” He clears his throat. “Maybe, we should remind King Vizimir that I owe allegiance to no one, and if he wants to make me a kingslayer, he could easily be next.” Too late, Geralt realises that he spilled the beans, but thankfully Jaskier seems too shocked to register the full meaning of his words.

“That… that… he wanted you to – to _execute_ somebody?” Suddenly, the bard looks murderous, a cold fire in his blue eyes. “I’m going to make him beg for mercy. What an absolute prick!” he growls. “ _Please_ , remind him of that. He deserves to be afraid the rest of his days. I want him to flinch at every moving shadow, fearing you might’ve finally decided to take your revenge. I want him to look over his shoulder every time he leaves Tretogor, fearing you could attack out of the blue. I want him to post guards and more guards at his door, fearing you might break in during the night.” Jaskier leans forward, his eyes like glaciers, incredibly blue and oh so cold. “I want you to haunt every waking minute for the rest of his life. I want you to become his nightmare, his greatest fear, his personal monster.”

Geralt blinks at him, surprised. Jaskier isn’t normally this feral, this hateful, this vengeful, and it worries him a little. The bard wasn’t supposed to know the evils of the world – the evils that couldn’t be hunted and killed – he wasn’t supposed to know this pain, this helplessness. Jaskier deserves better.

Geralt quietly resolves that he will give his friend all the good things that he deserves – defeated monsters, adventures, colourful clothes, and love.

“So what’s your plan, o Witcher?” Jaskier interrupts his musings. “He has to know he can’t escape you, not even here, not even in his…” something bright flickers over his face, “…bedchambers.”

Geralt can see the plan forming in Jaskier’s mind, and he’s pretty sure he’s not going to like it.

***

The window opens soundlessly, and Geralt leaps onto the windowsill as gracefully as a cat.

“Good luck,” Jaskier says, his voice strangled, worry obvious in every feature of his face.

“I’ll be fine,” Geralt sighs, silently thanking the gods that humans can’t smell lies. Jaskier’s plan is good but not without risks.

Jaskier nods firmly, attempting to smile but failing miserably. “Go, get them, Wolf.”

Without another word, the Witcher ducks out of the window. The next room’s window is only two metres away, and Geralt bridges the distance easily. The stones are still warm from the morning sun, but, luckily for him, the sun has wandered far enough to tinge this part of the castle in shadows. Not that anybody would look up. The tower guards might spot him, but why would they look in the direction of the castle?

Geralt jumps from window ledge to window ledge, feeling very much like running ‘The Killer’, the track prospective Witchers had to master. His movements are smooth and light-footed, and he enjoys the push and pull of his muscles after days spent in chains. The air is fresh, and a sparrow chirps angrily at him when he chases it away from his resting place.

In under a minute, he reaches the last window, looking up at the decorative oriel that forms the corner of the wall. It’s quite a jump, at least two metres up – but is he a fucking Witcher or what?

Geralt takes a deep breath; then he catapults himself upwards. His hands find the protruding stones, and he quickly presses himself against the wall, stilling all movements. His biceps tremble with the effort. Carefully, he turns his head, but nobody seems to have seen the flash of black.

His bare feet find easy grip on the rough wall, and he climbs the last few metres to the battlements swiftly. The small tower is just large enough for one person to stand, more for ornamental purposes than defensive ones, but it suits Geralt just fine. He rips the unlocked trapdoor open and steps into the black emptiness that gapes like the mouth of a monster.

After all, he’s been swallowed by monsters before and that never ended well for them.

The Witcher lands as noiselessly as a cat on the balls of his feet, his eyes adjusting immediately to the change of light. He’s standing in an alcove in the highest levels of the castle, commonly reserved for the servants. But at this time of the day, it’s deserted.

Listening closely for footsteps, Geralt creeps like a shadow down the corridor. He has only a vague idea where the king’s bedchambers might be, but these castles are all the same. Not that he’s been in many castles –

Well, not as guest, at least.

But he knows Kaer Morhen well.

The most important people live at the best protected part and the one with the best view. The west wing is furthest away from the gates – that should do it.

Using the servants’ staircases and hidden corridors – because servants are not to be seen except when you need them – he reaches the wing in question in quarter of an hour. Only once, he needed to duck into a niche to prevent being spotted by a servant.

While the king was ‘visiting’ them in their cell, Geralt had been able to get a good impression of his personal scent. He should be able to trace it back to Vizimir’s rooms.

Slowly, the Witcher works his way through the east wing, relying only on his sense of smell. It’s not very large and there are only three stories plus ground floor. Finally, on the second floor he catches a whiff of that disgusting perfume that his mind associates with Vizimir – coriander and sandalwood; to get to the chamber itself, however, Geralt needs to either brave the open corridor or try his luck climbing.

(In the worst case, he could try to get in through the hearth, which is fired by servants from behind, so they don’t need to enter the royal chambers.)

Now to the tricky part. Should he fight his way in – or be the ghost-thief you never noticed was there?

Calming his breath, he puts an ear to the door and listens. Eight heartbeats. Two sets of feet moving – a patrol. The others probably guarding the door and the entrance to the wing. Eight guards were no problem, but it would leave traces, and Geralt decides to do this assassin-style.

So he climbs back up a floor and enters an almost deserted corridor. One woman is carrying linen past him, but she doesn’t even look at him, too focused on not dropping the mountain of cloth.

Geralt chooses the room directly above the king’s private chambers. The door is unlocked. The chamber is richly furnished with heavy carpets and a large bed, a feminine perfume hanging in the air. Quickly, the Witcher crosses the room and throws open the window. Suddenly, his heartbeat picks up a little – not because of the effort, of course, the climbing was hardly exhausting – because he’s realising how much time has passed since he left their rooms. The shadows have wandered. He needs to hurry, just in case the king decides to pay Jaskier and him a visit.

Geralt quickly banishes that thought. He cannot allow himself to be distracted now.

Without hesitation, he throws himself over the edge, catching the window ledge of the room below easily, grunting a little as his shoulder protests, but he doesn’t pull himself up yet. Carefully, he listens – there’s a fire in the hearth, a log is shifting, popping quietly, but nobody’s inside, no heartbeat other than his own in his ears.

He tightens his arm muscles and heaves himself onto the window ledge, peering inside. His ears seemed correct – the room was empty.

Opening the window is a little tricky, but, finally, the Witcher manages to push one wing of the subdivided window inwards. The hole is rather small for a man of his build, but he managed with the other window as well.

Elegantly, he leaps inside, head first, rolling over skilfully. The carpet muffles any sound he might’ve made.

Coming to his feet in one fluid motion, Geralt surveys the room. Dark oak, thick carpets, tapestries on the wall, and…

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” the Witcher growls under his breath as he recognises the crossed swords over the mantelpiece. It seems the king had no intention of ever giving back his swords, presenting them like a hunting trophy in his bedroom.

Silently, he frees his beloved weapons from their prison, checking them over with careful fingers. They are sharp and clean; Renfri’s broach is still attached to the iron sword, and Geralt brushes a thumb over it – his reminder not to get involved. It worked this time just as fantastically as it did with Renfri and Stregobor. There is no lesser evil. Evil stays evil – that was true then, and it’s true now.

With a heavy heart, the Witcher looks around for the sheaths. They’re indeed not far away. On a rack in the king’s dressing room, next to a bronze mirror, there’s Geralt’s armour. Someone even cleaned it for him, the metal nubs gleaming. How generous.

Geralt smirks at the irony of it as the blades glide noiselessly into the sheaths.

With practised movements, the Witcher fastens the various buckles and leather straps. It feels unbelievably good to be back in his armour, like finally fighting his way out of the selkiemore and breathing clean air for the first time – or maybe more like sinking into a hot spring after a week on the road, alls his muscles relaxing.

Geralt feels whole again, like a real Witcher.

He straps both blades to his back – unusual for him, but there’s no way he can climb with a sword in his hand or at his hip.

Slowly, Geralt lets his gaze wander over the rooms – should he take anything else?

His armour and swords should prove he’d made into the king’s private rooms. The Witcher is no thief; it doesn’t sit right with him to take any of the trinkets that stand on the mantelpiece or dresser. However, then he spots a large purse carelessly put on the bedside table. He walks over and counts out the coin that he would’ve been owed for the archgriffin job.

The king owes him this much.

Fastening the much lighter purse at his belt, he tip-toes to the exit. Not bothering to close the window, he climbs back up to the empty room, feeling very much a like real ghost – dangerous, uncontrollable, unpredictable, unseen, unfelt, unheard, unsmelled.

***

Jaskier worries.

Geralt seems to be gone for hours, and no amount of pacing helps to calm his worry. What if he gets caught? What if Yennefer doesn’t manage to gather all the things they need? What if Princess Ana or the King come to visit?

He doesn’t know how much time has passed when several sets of footsteps approach, and his pulse doubles.

Fuck.

Of course, they’d choose _now_ of all times to pay him a visit.

There’s a sharp knock before the door is unceremoniously pushed open. The wood bangs against the wall and Jaskier flinches. His fingers are shaking so badly he couldn’t even hold his lute right now, and all the measured breaths do nothing to calm his panic.

The king stands in the doorframe. He’s wearing a heavy doublet with golden brocade and a red velvet cloak that falls to the floor. A crown sits perfectly straight on his brown-and-silver hair, and rings adorn his fingers. He looks even more dressed up than at the feast.

Jaskier’s knees feel weak; only his years of practise standing half-drunk on a stage keep him upright. For a moment, the surroundings blur and only Vizimir’s face stays focused; for a moment, Jaskier’s hands are tied to a post, cold night air biting into his exposed skin; for a moment, he’s a shadow of himself, a pathetic mess of fear and pain.

Then, the moment passes.

Jaskier takes a deep breath, bowing elegantly, determined to not let the king see how much his back still aches. “Your majesty.”

The king enters, taking his words as invitation, and Jaskier can see the many guards waiting behind him in the hallway. This can’t be good.

“Viscount,” King Vizimir greets him, inclining his head a little. “Where’s the Witcher?”

“He… is bathing, your majesty,” Jaskier lies quickly, hoping kings are not as adept at sniffing out lies as Witchers. His heart beats too loud in his ears, and he can’t hear if Geralt has returned to the other room yet or not.

“Well…” The King of Redania shifts, biting back insults undoubtedly. “I give him five minutes to get ready.”

“How gracious of you, your majesty,” Jaskier smiles sweetly. “Ready for what, if I might ask?”

“Why, your wedding, of course,” Vizimir replies just as sweetly.

Jaskier’s stomach drops and he stumbles backwards until he hits the wall. The wedding was supposed to be tomorrow! They’re not ready. The king can’t…

“Put these on.”

Fresh clothes are tossed on the bed. An indigo blue and grey doublet. Grey breeches. Blue knee-highs. These are… the colours of Lettenhove.

Jaskier pales even further, his legs refusing to take even one step.

“Ah, we also procured your sigil ring,” the king adds, dropping the valuable object carelessly on top of the clothes.

“But…” Jaskier chokes out.

The king’s eyes narrow dangerously. “This will be much more pleasant if you obey.” The guards behind him shift, and Jaskier knows exactly what the kings means. Either he puts the clothes on without fuss, or the clothes will be put on him.

Holding on to the little dignity he has, Jaskier grabs the garments, bows stiffly, and retreats to the – unfortunately empty – room to change. The window is open and fresh air blows in. Quickly, Jaskier sticks his head out of the window, but Geralt is nowhere in sight.

Fuck.

With shaking fingers, he fumbles open button for button. His doublet is fighting him every step of the way, and he thinks he never dressed this clumsily or this slowly ever before, even when wasted. The grey-blue doublet fits perfectly and Jaskier faintly recognises it from a lifetime ago. He’s still as lean as with sixteen.

It feels like putting on soaking wet clothes, cold and uncomfortable and _wrong_. The fine material feels foreign on his skin, and everything itches and scratches.

There’s a sharp knock on the door, causing his heartbeat to speed up.

“One moment,” he calls. If the king enters and realises Geralt is gone…

Without shoes, he runs to the door just in time to block it. “Almost ready,” he says breathlessly. There’s still a button missing on his doublet, but the hole is just so fucking small.

The king peaks through the narrow gap, pushing slightly against the door. “What’s the problem, Viscount?”

“I… ah, Geralt… ah… isn’t dressed,” he stutters pathetically, holding the door shut with one foot and one hand, the other hand still trying in vain to close the top button.

“Time’s up,” Vizimir snaps, impatient.

“Ah, just one minute, please,” he says, finally managing to squeeze the button through the hole.

The king’s eyes narrow and he pushes harder against the door. “What are you hiding in there, bard?”

Now he’s the bard again, is he?

“N-nothing.” Jaskier attempts to smile convincingly, his muscles shaking with the effort to keep the door closed. Where the fuck is Geralt?

The king gives another hard shove that causes Jaskier to stumble backwards to not be hit in the face by the door. The king barges in the room, his eyes scanning every corner in seconds.

“Where is he?” he barks. Then his eyes land on the window, and Jaskier can see the realisation dawning on his face. The sudden fear on the king’s face – nothing more than a quick flash, immediately hidden – strangely enough _calms_ his racing heartbeat, gives him courage and chases away the last remnants of the scared little boy from yesterday.

Jaskier straightens, looking the king directly in the eyes. “He’s gone,” he explains firmly, knowing that his words will affect the king. “You’ll not hurt him ever again.”

The king looks livid. There’s a vein pulsing at his temple and his cheeks are red with fury. “You’ll regret that,” he yells, “I promise you.”

“No, you’ll regret that!” Jaskier replies coldly, drawing strength from the plans they put in place. Yennefer and Geralt will come through, and Jaskier is not the pathetic little creature the king had whipped yesterday. Even if he signed a contract – parchment could be burnt. He makes a step towards the king, threatening and decisive. “He’ll find you wherever you hide. And he’ll make you pay.”

The king blanches.

“So think one last time about if you really want to go through with this marriage,” Jaskier adds, casually playing with his sigil ring.

Vizimir pulls himself up to his full height. “I’m the King of Redania. He wouldn’t dare –”

“Dare what? Kill a king?” the bard mocks.

Instantly, he knows that he went too far. The pure hatred on the king’s face is almost burning him in its intensity.

“Grab him!”

Instantly, panic floods his bloodstream and Jaskier falls back, but there’s nowhere to go. He dives to evade the first man that tries to tackle him, but the bed blocks his way, and suddenly, hands grab him, drag him, pull him. He struggles, hearing the satisfying crunch of a broken nose when his elbow connects with a face, but then a punch drives all air out his lungs, and he doubles over.

“What do you think, _bard_?” the king spits, grabbing his hair and forcing him to look up at him. “Should I cut off your pinkie finger after the ceremony and send it to the Witcher? And the ring finger the day after that? And your middle finger the day after that one? Do you think he’ll come back then?”

Before Jaskier can pull himself together, he’s in the hallway, helplessly stumbling along the long strides of the soldiers. The grips around his arms are like vices, and he knows there’s no escape this time. He was careless, provoking the king without anything to back up his threats. He should’ve known better…

Fear makes everything fuzzy, the faces, the corridors, the lights –

_‘Should I cut off your pinkie finger?’_

Jaskier feels bile rise in his throat. Without his fingers, he couldn’t play the lute – barely any instrument, really. The king couldn’t – oh, please, please, please…

 _Geralt will make it back in time_ , he tells himself. _He always makes it. He’ll save me. I just have to believe._

_Please, Geralt._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has to get worse before if gets better, right? Right? *runs away and hides*
> 
> Computer problems Part II: you know, I told you about breaking my keyboard, didn't I? I organised a keyboard to plug into my laptop, so I wouldn't need to buy a new one. And guess what happened today... My charger broke - now I have like one hour of battery left. Cool.  
> I think the universe is trying to tell me something...  
> So, this chapter could probably be better, but I just wanted to post it *right now* before it disappears in the depths of my hard drive. 
> 
> (Sometimes, I really hate the 21st century.)
> 
> Anyway... comments and kudos make me happy, and I desperately need some cheering up now. :)


	10. The Red Wedding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier and Princess Ana are forced to perform the traditional Wedding Vows of the Northern Kingdoms. All the while, Jaskier prays for his favourite Witcher to appear and put an end to this, but will he?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank y'all so much for your nice comments and kudos! That's why I decided to update already! :)
> 
> The seven wedding vows, I shamelessly adapted from Hindu Wedding vows I found on the internet, and the wedding vows the two speak after are non-religious vows I found.
> 
> For the scene that is written from Geralt's POV (starting with "Geralt has never run this fast in his life"), I'd recommend the Netflix soundtrack for the right atmosphere: ‘Man in Black ‘(especially from 1:00 onwards) or ‘Today isn’t your day, is it?’ Or well, ‘Geralt of Rivia’ will do the trick as well.

When the Witcher enters his and Jaskier’s chambers through the window, he knows instantly that something is wrong. He stays in his crouch, watching and smelling and listening.

The first thing he notices is that it’s too silent. Nobody is humming, singing, whispering… no heartbeat, no quiet breathing. Jaskier is _gone_. The guards are gone, too.

Then, he smells it. The perfume that lingered in the king’s chambers – there’s still a trace of coriander in the air. Geralt’s nostrils flare. He can smell Jaskier’s fear now and the faint bitterness of pain underneath.

Fuck.

***

Jaskier’s thigh muscles burn, but he’s pushed forward, upward, another step, then another. The stone floor is icy under his socked feet, and his toes are numb by now. The spiral staircase seems endless, and his breath is coming in ragged gasps. He expected to be brought to the throne room or maybe the council chambers, but… a tower?

In a way, it makes sense. If Geralt came for him, it could be easily defended.

 _Not if – when!_ , he reminds himself.

Black spots – as much from fear as from exhaustion – dance in front of his eyes when they finally reach the uppermost floor. The soldiers let him pause for a few seconds, then push him through the wooden door.

Jaskier finds himself in a large, light-flooded, circular room; it’s so bright that he’s almost blinded, his eyes slow to adjust. High, small openings in the wall let light and air in and the wind is howling around the tower, causing Jaskier to shiver. There’s no decoration, bare stone walls and a rough stone floor – a defensive tower, nothing else.

Automatically, his gaze finds the other prisoner in the room. Princess Ana. The colour of her surcoat is a deep ocean blue, laced in front over a light grey, long-sleeved tunic – Lettenhove colours. The sight makes Jaskier’s skin crawl. Her layers of petticoats emphasise her waist and tightly laced bodice. A thin veil is fastened on the tiara on her head, covering part of her hair. She’d look beautiful if it weren’t for the circumstances and the general air of desperation clinging to her. Her eyes are too bright, but she doesn’t cry. He posture is perfect, straight and proud, but her fingers are shaking slightly.

She looks at Jaskier with a mixture of fear and hope that he can barely bear. He tries to smile encouragingly, but his cheek muscles refuse.

A guard pushes him forward and he almost stumbles, but catching himself in time. The king appears behind him, breathing heavily.

“Father, what is the meaning –” Princess Ana begins, but the king will have none of it.

“You will be silent unless spoken to, Ana,” he orders sharply, and the princess flinches at his harsh tone. “I will not be made a fool of.” He takes a wheezing breath. “You will marry today, and tomorrow the marriage will be celebrated. I…” Another deep breath. “I’ve prepared the contract. You will make your vows and sign it. Then, the Viscount will be escorted to your chambers.” His eyes are as grey as the ocean during a storm and just as cold. “You will consummate the marriage tonight. Guards will be posted in front of the door. You will not wriggle your way out of this agreement.”

Ana pales even further, blinking heavily. Her gaze flies to Jaskier, and the raw fear in her hazel eyes make him sick. She should have no reason to fear him – he’d never hurt her. But she doesn’t know that.

“Your majesty…” Jaskier tries again, but a guard kicks him in the hollow of the knee and he loses his balance. His patellae connect painfully with the stone floor, a groan escaping his lips.

“Jaskier.” Immediately, a soft hand is placed on his shoulder, and the princess shifts to place herself between him and the guard. “That was unnecessary.”

“You will address the Viscount with the title and name he owns, child, not as a ridiculous flower,” Vizimir bellows.

“Yes, father,” she replies in a small voice, her fingers clenching into the fabric of his doublet. Jaskier doesn’t like her tone; it’s too fragile. Ana has never been fragile in all the time since he met her.

The king moves around them, his red coat almost brushing Jaskier’s shoulders. He feels like kneeling in front of an executioner, offering his throat willingly. Where are the words that normally flow so easily from his lips? Where are the threats he so carefully constructed before? –

His mind is utterly blank.

Jaskier swallows audibly, his mouth dry. He needs to find a possibility to stall, and fast.

Geralt will come for him.

He clings to that thought with all his heart and soul, placing all his hope in one man. This hope burns like a fire, a bright light within him, and it gives him the strength he needs to struggle back to his feet. He will not accept this without a fight. He owes the Witcher – and Ana – this much.

“Maybe I could offer you a better solution, King of Redania,” he says with as much confidence as he can muster at the moment.

“One more word of you, and I’ll have you gagged,” Vizimir threatens without batting an eye. He’s in the position of power now, and everything Jaskier could demand with menaces would be meaningless.

“Please, father. Will you not see reason?”

For a second, Jaskier fears the king might strike the princess, but then his gaze softens a little. “This is for your own good, daughter. You will understand that when you have children of your own.”

The princess sways a little at his words, which gives Jaskier an idea.

“Now. The vows,” the king says curtly, turning to a guard who carries a long red velvet band, which will bind their hands in marriage. Jaskier uses the second the king is distracted, leaning over to Ana and whispering, “Faint.”

She blinks at him, a small frown between her eyebrows, and he’s not sure she understood. But then, the king turns back to the couple. “Stretch out your hands, so I may tie the seven knots to bind you.”

“Oh, I cannot,” Ana sighs dramatically, clutching her chest. Then, without a warning, her knees give in and she falls as ungraceful as any real faint is. Jaskier only just manages to catch her, and only because he watched out for it.

“Ana!” the king cries out. “Darling child… Ana!”

Carefully, Jaskier lowers her to the floor, bedding her head in his lap. A strand of brown hair lies over her face, her coal lashes like a shadow over the slightly purple skin under her eyes.

“She’s faking it, your majesty,” one of the guard remarks flatly. “Lift her hand over her face and let it drop. If she’s not truly unconscious, she’ll protect her face.”

The king’s whole posture tenses. “Ana. I’ll give you one chance to end this charade _or_ …”

The princess remains perfectly still in Jaskier’s lap, her breaths deep and even, her fingers limp.

“Break one of the Viscount’s fingers,” the king orders coldly and Jaskier gasps as, instantly, one guard steps forward, grabbing his left arm so fast he can’t react.

“No!” Ana’s eyes shoot open. “Don’t hurt him.”

The king looks at her for a long moment while Jaskier shivers with fear, the guards grip tightening around his left wrist.

“This is the last warning,” Vizimir gives in, nodding at the soldier, who lets him go.

Jaskier sighs with relief, cradling his arm protectively to his chest. Someone roughly pulls him to his feet, but he doesn’t care.

Where the fuck is Geralt?

Ana smiles apologetically at him as she stretches out her right arm – an invitation, an offer, an apology – and Jaskier takes it, drawing strength from the contact. With a grim smile, the king wraps the velvet band around their joint hands.

“The first knot shall bind them together,” he says while tying the first knot. Normally, the couple says the vows together, but the king probably doesn’t want to take any chances that they’d find more ways to delay this wedding. Jaskier actually doesn’t trust his voice to perform properly, so he just stares at the red velvet that looks like blood on their skin.

Vizimir continues with an even voice, “The second knot shall develop a physical, mental, and spiritual connection. The third knot shall bind their wealth to a common household.”

Jaskier flinches as the knot is tied a little too tightly and Ana moves her finger against his in a calming gesture.

“The fourth knot shall strengthen their knowledge, happiness and harmony by mutual love and trust,” the king states, the words washing over Jaskier like a wave. He knows them well, having played at countless weddings. “The fifth knot shall bless them with strong, virtuous and heroic children. The sixth knot shall strengthen them against all enemies.” The king pauses significantly before wrapping the velvet once more around their hands. “The seventh knot shall make them true companions. May they remain lifelong partners by this wedlock.”

Jaskier feels himself shaking as he turns to Princess Ana, who looks equally pale.

“Viscount,” the kings says lowly, threateningly, and Jaskier forces himself to speak.

“I, Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove,” his name feels unfamiliar on his tongue, “take you, Ana Marie Casimire, Princess of Redania, to be no other than yourself. L-loving what I know of you, _trusting_ what I do not yet know, I will _respect_ your integrity…” He looks deeply in her hazel eyes, willing her to understand. Even if Geralt doesn’t come in time, he will make this all right. He’ll give her respect, and freedom, and adventures. This marriage will not be her prison. “…and have faith in your abiding love for me, through all our years, and in all that life may bring us.”

Ana swallows convulsively. “I, Ana Marie Casimire, Princess of Redania, take you, Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove,” his name is soft on her lips, softer than anybody ever said it, “to be no other than yourself.” She smile, actually _smiles_ , and Jaskier knows that she knows exactly what she’s promising with her words. He’ll always be a bard, a traveller, never to be confined – and she accepts that. “Loving what I know of you, _trusting_ what I do not yet know,” she winks, “I will respect your integrity and have faith in your abiding love for me.”

Then, she hesitates, her voice strangled. As soon as she finishes the vow, the marriage will be official, and both of them dread it. She takes a deep, fortifying breath, then another. “Through… through all our years, a- and in all that –”

A yell echoes up the stairs, then it cuts off abruptly. Jaskier turns his head sharply, listening, willing Geralt to appear at the doorstep. They can clearly hear the dull sound of metal on metal, blade on blade. Jaskier thinks he’s never been more relieved to hear it.

A smile blooms on his lips. “He’s coming.”

Vizimir’s eyes widen, and he gestures hastily at the remaining guards to man the door. “He will not make it in time.”

“He will,” Jaskier says, unwavering and firm.

“Ana, say the rest of it!” the king orders, but the princess defiantly raises her chin, her lips sealed shut. “Ana!” he roars, his gaze flickering back to the door.

The sounds of fighting draw nearer, the strangled cries, blades rasping over blades, the crashing of armour on stone.

“There are thirty men guarding the tower. It doesn’t matter how good he is. No man can defeat them,” Vizimir says, sounding more like he tries to convince himself than Ana.

“You said it yourself, o King of Redania,” Jaskier replies with a smile. “He _is_ no man.”

The king flinches as another blood-curdling scream echoes up the staircase.

“He is a _Witcher_.”

***

Geralt has never run this fast in his life, following the trail of Jaskier’s fear, getting sharper and clearer with every step. His iron sword lies lightly in his hand, waiting for the spill of blood.

He prays to the gods that he isn’t too late.

Servants and nobles jump out of his way, screaming and cursing, but he doesn’t hear them, doesn’t care for them – all his senses are tuned on Jaskier. He can finally hear the faint hum of his voice as he reaches the courtyard. With one glance, he takes in the scene.

A tower protected by at least twenty soldiers, a mass of armour and blades between him and Jaskier.

He doesn’t pause, keeps running straight at the first line of soldiers. _Aard_ throws them backwards into the next row, and he’s on them like a Kikimora – his blade is everywhere, stabbing, slicing, slitting, piercing, cutting. He holds the sword like it weighs absolutely nothing, using it like a mixture between dagger and sword, casting signs with his free hand – _Quen_ to protect his back, and _Yrden_ to slow down the attackers.

The Witcher doesn’t let himself stop, moves on instinct, deflects blows and twirls and dodges and jumps and twists so fast his movements blur, dancing his own special dance – the dance of blades. He’s a shadow in the army of red-and-white soldiers, a demon among men, and they fall beneath his sword like sheep beneath a wolf pack. He’s the Butcher of Blaviken all over again.

Finally, Geralt reaches the entrance of the tower, bodies littering the courtyard and blood dripping from his blade and armour. The narrow staircase restricts his long, fluid movements a little, but he doesn’t pause. He’s so close. He can hear Jaskier’s heartbeat, his confident words.

A dagger glides over his shoulder armour, hazardously thrown, and he grabs it in flight and flings it back at the attacker. The smell of fear is almost overwhelming in this narrow space, and, as much as he normally despises it, it brings out the wolf in him, the predator that revels in the fear it sows.

He takes the stairs two steps at a time, barely stopping to incapacitate the soldiers who foolishly think the confined space would give them an advantage. He buries his sword deep in the gut of the last soldier, letting him glide off his sword and kicking him down the steps in one move, just as he hears Jaskier say,

“He is a Witcher.”

The trust in his voice calms Geralt’s panic. Another step and he stands in the tower room.

All he can see is Jaskier’s smile. Soon, everything else will come rushing at him, like the ground to a falling man, and hit him all at once – the company, his words, their tied hands – but around that intake of breath, the world hangs silent and bright, so bright, and Geralt only knows only one thing, and holds onto it, and wants to live inside of it forever.

Jaskier is alright.

Then, the moment breaks, and Princess Ana’s pale but relieved face swims into focus. Behind her, slightly hidden, stands the King of Redania, his eyes wide with horror. Geralt knows he’s drenched in blood, and, for the first time in his life, he enjoys the effect it has on others. The metallic smell is unpleasant but sweetened by the king’s fear.

“Geralt!” Jaskier smiles, making a step towards him, but he’s stopped by his left hand, which is still tied to Ana’s.

“Jaskier,” Geralt says, letting relief tug at the corners of his mouth. “Are you hurt?”

Jaskier shakes his head.

Geralt takes in his appearance, the new doublet, darker than Jaskier’s usual style, the relaxed wave of his shoulders, the glow of his eyes, and decides to believe him for now.

“Stay where you are, Butcher!” King Vizimir yells, panic causing his voice to skip a few octaves.

“Butcher,” Geralt repeats grimly. In a deliberately slow movement, he sheaths the iron sword, venturing deeper into the room, every step silent and careful.

Princess Ana tenses when he draws near, but she doesn’t step back. Jaskier raises his hand, as if to reach for him – and Geralt wants to take his hand and draw him close and touch him everywhere to make sure he’s okay. But he doesn’t.

“Here.” He offers Jaskier a dagger he took from one of the guards, and Jaskier’s answering smile is almost blinding. Quickly, he pulls Princess Ana aside, so she doesn’t stand between the Witcher and the King.

“Do you know why I have two swords?” Geralt asks, focusing the force of his golden eyes on the noble, his voice low with menace. The king only stares at him, as if he still can’t believe he’s real.

“Steel for humans.”

In one fluid motion, he draws the clean, silver sword, the tip of the blade coming to a rest at Vizimir’s throat.

“Silver for monsters.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What can I say...? I was feeling epic.
> 
> Let me know what you think ;)


	11. Welcome to the Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier executes their plan, and Yennefer is a badass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh guys, thank you all so, so much for your comments and the many kudos. This fandom really has the nicest people! <3
> 
> The lyrics are from: The Horror and the Wild – The Amazing Devil (Go listen to them, if you haven't already. I'm so madly obsessed with their music)

Jaskier thinks he’s never been so happy to see Geralt in all his life. Even blood-drenched and filthy, he looks _magnificent_. Scarlet drops run down his cheek and neck, like paint on marble, and a few strands of white hair are dyed garnet –Jaskier can’t wait to wash this gloriously tangled mess of moonlight – and the metal nubs of his armour are gleaming silver in the sunlight, bright spots on the dark leather. Geralt’s sword hand is steady and relaxed, even when pointed at a king’s throat, the blade the perfect extension of his arm, and his golden eyes are fierce and burning with a rage that would make Jaskier fear for his life if it were directed at him – Geralt hasn’t even looked this feral back on the mountain – and his lips are curled back to reveal his fangs, and…

and Jaskier has never seen him look more beautiful than right now, alive and dangerous and _here_.

“You won’t hurt me,” the king chokes out, his back pressed to the wall, white-faced with fear, his crown slightly askew. Jaskier feels no pity for him.

“Try me,” Geralt snarls, pressing the tip deep enough into the king’s skin to draw blood, every move calculated. Jaskier can basically _feel_ the restrained strength in his muscles – one turn of his wrist and the king’s head would be severed from his body.

Ana makes a small noise, a strangled gasp, and Jaskier turns towards her. Her hand is covering her own throat protectively, as if Geralt could decide to attack her next, and she looks torn between wanting to run away and wanting to step between the Witcher and her father.

Jaskier wants to calm her, to tell her it’ll be alright, but, for once in his life, he doesn’t know how.

The king clears his throat. “I… I will call more guards.”

“And I will kill them,” Geralt replies simply, as if stating a fact. He probably is. Jaskier doesn’t actually want to walk down the steps and see the carnage that the White Wolf left behind.

“You… you…” The king casts about for more threats to fling at the Witcher, coming up empty. He finally seems to realise what Geralt is wearing, his eyes moving up and down his armoured body. (The Witcher must’ve found his belongings on the way to the king’s chambers, or possibly even there? Jaskier doesn’t know.)

“How did you…?” Vizimir begins but interrupts himself at once.

Jaskier steps forwards to stand at Geralt’s side, not caring if some of the blood touches his doublet. He’ll burn it anyway. “I told you. He is a Witcher.”

Geralt’s head whips around towards Jaskier, a strange look in his golden eyes. His fierce sunlight gaze consumes Jaskier, and song lyrics pop into his mind.

_You were raised by wolves and voices_   
_Every night I hear them howling deep beneath your bed_   
_They said it all comes down to you._

But he doesn’t sing them. Now is not the right time. When it was over, he’d write a song for Geralt and perform it, and the Witcher would finally understand what Jaskier sees in him.

“He’s still solid. Witchers can’t walk through walls,” the king snaps.

“But they can climb them,” Geralt replies, still looking at Jaskier intensely, searching for something.

“It’s true, he’s a man,” Jaskier agrees, finally tearing his gaze away from the golden fire. “But he’ll be your ghost, your personal nightmare. He’s the power which eternally wills good and eternally destroys evil. He’s the White Wolf.”

The king’s grey eyes flicker to him, then back to the Witcher, fear seeping through the cracks in his façade. Fear and violent hatred. He’s powerless beneath Geralt’s sword, as powerless as Jaskier had been at the whipping post, and the bard feels viciously pleased about that.

“You made a mistake, your majesty,” Jaskier continues, enjoying the power his words carry. “You thought you could control a Witcher. You sought to control something that cannot be controlled –” He makes a sweeping gesture. “Welcome to the aftermath.”

_Welcome to the storm – I am thunder._

Oh, what a good line. He should definitely include that in his next song. His fingers itch to search for the booklet that he knows lies in his room, but there are more important things right now than a song.

“Stop sprouting your nonsensical poetry, bard,” the king hisses between clenched teeth. “What do you want?”

“Easy,” Jaskier smiles widely. “You will release me from the marriage contract with Princess Ana.”

The king’s eyes flicker to his daughter, who stands stock-still, watching the scene unfold. Geralt growls lowly, a warning of sorts to not think too long about it, and Vizimir inhales sharply.

“Fine,” he snarls, his fingers curling into the fabric of his coat, as if to stop himself from attacking. He seems to have realised that this was not a negotiation but an order. All he can do is nod and comply.

Ana makes a sound, as if to say something, but suddenly, the air behind them shifts as a portal is ripped into the fabric of the world. Jaskier whirls around and sees Yennefer in all her dangerous elegance step through, her purple eyes taking in the scene quickly.

“I’m gone what? – Two hours? And you boys get right into trouble,” she drawls, slowly approaching them. The hem of her grey dress drags over the stone floor and her steps can be clearly heard in the deadly silence. Geralt’s eyes never leave the king, but he nods when she steps beside him.

“Your majesty.” The sorceress mock-curtsies, then turns to Geralt. “You have something in your hair, darling.”

“And who are you?” the king hisses, his eyes narrowed.

 _Rude_ , Jaskier thinks. How can the man underestimate and disrespect her like that after he’s seen that she was a mage and not just some random woman? Even Yennefer’s beauty screams dangerous. _She destroys with her sweet kiss._

“I’m Yennefer of Vengerberg,” she replies with the air of a queen, her eyes the colour of thunderclouds. “And if you think your pathetic court mage will help, you’ll have another thing coming.”

“ _You_ … you’re…”

“A sorceress, yes,” Jaskier finishes the king’s spluttering, even though that was probably not the word he’d been looking for. “Did you get it?”

“Who do you take me for?” Yennefer replies, pulling a scroll out of a pocket in her dress and handing it to Jaskier. He quickly unrolls it, smiles, and then nods at the sorceress.

“This is the contract we talked about,” Jaskier says, showing the signatures and sigils – the Crown over Redania’s Eagle and the Unicorn of Lettenhove – to the king, who pales even further. “Yennefer, darling, would you…?”

The sorceress smiles wickedly. With a dramatic snap of her fingers, the scroll is consumed by fire. Hastily, Jaskier drops it – perhaps a little clumsily – to not get burnt by the flames.

“This is that,” the bard says, brushing ash from his doublet.

“But…” Ana interjects, suddenly moving forward. “You… you _promised_ me…” The tears of betrayal in her eyes shove Jaskier down from the heights of smugness and revenge. He completely forgot about her presence, about what this would do to her. “You…” She curls her shaking hands to fists, looking impotent and helpless. Her eyes flicker from the Witcher, who still holds his sword to Vizimir’s throat, to Yennefer and back to Jaskier.

“We haven’t forgotten you, Princess,” Yennefer says softly, smiling the first real smile he’s ever seen on her face.

“Yes, I drew up a new contract for you,” Jaskier adds, fumbling for the piece of parchment that he’d ripped out of his notebook. There’re a few song lyrics scribbled on the back, but he couldn’t find anything else in his stuff to write on.

Ana’s eyes flash at him. “I told I don’t –”

“It’s not a marriage contract,” he placates her immediately, guessing the direction of her thoughts, and she stills, eyeing the parchment curiously. “Quite the opposite, in fact.”

Jaskier smooths out the paper, presenting it to her as if it were an immensely valuable document. “This will put you under my protection as Viscount de Lettenhove, and, with that, you will be under the White Wolf’s protection as well.”

Ana’s gaze jumps from the parchment to the Witcher, who nods at her curtly. “The Witchers of the Wolf School, my brothers and I, will always come for you,” he says simply, but it might as well be a statement of eternal allegiance. Wolfs are loyal. Geralt seems to have no idea how impressive that is, but Ana gapes. Jaskier doesn’t know exactly how many Wolfs are left – he’s heard of Eskel, and Lambert, and the sword master Vesemir. But even four Witchers equalled an army.

“And I will, too,” adds the sorceress quietly, as if it was nothing.

Ana looks at her, takes in her dark beauty, her elegant dress, her purple eyes, and Jaskier can see that she knows exactly how much this promise is worth. “Why?” she asks finally, her voice hoarse, like she can’t really believe it.

“Because you protected me,” Jaskier explains. It’s as simple as that. She’d shown him mercy when she hadn’t known she could trust him, and mercy, he discovered, makes mad alchemy: a drop of it can dilute a lake of hate. Good deeds deserve good in return.

She blinks at him, processing the words. Then her gaze wanders to the shred of red velvet on the floor, and her posture tenses. “That means I don’t…”

“You don’t have to marry.” Jaskier nods and the line of her shoulders relaxes again.

The king makes a strangled noise, but nobody pays attention to his protest. Slowly, Ana begins to read the rest of the document, her lips silently forming words. She pauses.

“It says… it… a diplomat?” she questions, mild confusion in her frown.

“It would allow you to travel wherever you want to,” the bard points out, a soft smile on his lips. “Diplomats are protected. You can use your knowledge and your skills for the good of your kingdom.”

She opens her mouth, but no sound comes out. Too many emotions to name them flicker over her face and, suddenly, she flings herself at him with such a force that he stumbles backwards. “Thank you.”

Jaskier awkwardly pat her on the back, surprised by the literal force of her gratitude.

“This is utter nonsense.” The king’s voice lashes like a whip through the air, destroying Ana’s happy smile effortlessly.

Jaskier twist around, glaring at Vizimir. “It isn’t. You _will_ make Princess Ana your chief diplomat. You will sign this contract right now.”

Geralt growls to emphasise Jaskier’s point.

The king lifts his chin defiantly. He has more backbone than Jaskier thought. But luckily, the bard can be cunning, too.

He exchanges a meaningful glance with Yennefer, who nods. “You know, being a bard has its perks. You hear things, a lot of things. I know that the Mayor of Rinde has an affair with the captain of the city guards. I know that the Master of Coin keeps a mistress with money he takes from the Crown.”

The king gasps. “Lord Fillip? That absolute…”

Jaskier brushes his outburst away. “Yes, yes. Terrible.” A sharpness appears in his voice as he continues, “Just as terrible as brother conspiring against brother to become duke.”

The king stills, staring at Jaskier with wide eyes. The bard can practically see the wheels in his head turning, assessing, calculating.

“You helped the Duke of Ellenbor to kill his own brother, and I have documents that prove it,” Jaskier says coldly. On cue, Yennefer pulls a letter out of the folds of her gown, which clearly has the king’s seal on it.

“Did nobody ever tell you not to put things in writing?” she mocks.

“That…” The king swallows. “That… was five years ago. Nobody cares about that anymore.”

“Maybe.” Jaskier shrugs, a lopsided grin on his face. “But… remind me again who the wife of the former duke was, who died in the same accident. A princess, wasn’t she?”

Ana gasps. “Princess Salvinia, a cousin once removed to the Queen of Temeria.”

Jaskier smiles his most evil smile. “Do you think that’s enough reason for Temeria to start another war, or do I need to bring up the incident in Wyzima that killed Prince Sarajev, heir to the throne?”

“I had no hand in that!” the king protests, almost moving forward but stopping himself in time.

Geralt makes a disapproving sound, adjusting his stance a little, and the silver sword catches a sunray.

“Maybe you did, maybe you didn’t.” Yennefer shrugs. “But you _were_ involved in Duchess Salvinia’s death. A simple suggestion is enough…” she says, examining her fingernails ostentatiously.

“Wars have been fought for less,” Geralt grunts – the Witcher has probably already been around for the last war between Temeria and Redania – and Jaskier smiles at him. A strand of white hair has escaped his hair tie, falling into his face, and Jaskier has the sudden urge to push it back behind his ears. Did he mention how handsome the Witcher looked covered in blood?

The king makes a choking sound, his right eye twitching, and Jaskier focuses back on their enemy.

“So you will sign this!” he orders, using his vocal skills to make his voice as deep and threatening as possible. “You will announce Princess Ana’s new role tomorrow, and you will be sure to include the warning that anybody who messes with her will face direct and brutal consequences.”

Geralt’s sword travels slowly from the king’s throat to his chest. “And that includes _you_ ,” he rumbles.

The king looks from Ana to Jaskier to the Witcher to Yennefer and finally back to Jaskier, his mind racing, searching for a way out.

“We’ll find you,” Geralt adds threateningly, “wherever you may hide. And we’ll make you pay.”

“You’re lucky you escape with your body intact,” the sorceress says, smiling like a predator, all teeth no humour. “I’d have preferred to turn you into something small and slimy, but…” she sighs, “oh well… Geralt, you know I won’t,” she tags on when the Witcher gives her a warning look.

Suddenly, Princess Ana speaks up, “Father, _please_. I’ll make you proud.” She has regained her composure, appearing calm and determined.

The king draws in a deep breath, like a pearl-diver coming up for air. Father and daughter look at each other, a silent conversation going on that Jaskier isn’t privy to. Finally, the king lowers his gaze, and Jaskier knows that they have won. Triumph floods his bloodstream, pure energy and joy.

They’ve done it!

He was free again!

Nobody would ever make the mistake of threatening Geralt again!

And Princess Ana could find happiness with whomever she wanted to, travelling wherever the road led her, like a cloud over the sky.

“Give it,” the king barks through clenched teeth, managing to at least _look_ slightly dignified with the sword still hovering over his chest, a very physical reminder of what would happen if he refused.

Ana walks up to the king, only the slightest tremble in her fingers as she passes him the parchment. She’s standing right next to Geralt’s sword, and Jaskier can see in the rigidity of her back how affected she is by that.

Silently, he puts a hand on Geralt’s arm and the Witcher understands at once, lowering his weapon and stepping back, giving them space. The king is defeated; there’s no need for the sword anymore.

Yennefer produces a quill and royal blue ink from somewhere, and the king signs the contract next to Jaskier’s loopy signature, pressing his sigil ring into the fresh wax that Yennefer pours. Then he hands the piece of parchment back to Ana without looking at her. His shoulders are as stiff as a board as he walks past the group without another comment and down the steps slippery with blood.

Ana swallows, her fingers tracings her name on the parchment, then she carefully folds it and hides it in the sleeve of her dress. “I don’t know how to thank you,” she says finally, lifting her eyes and meeting Jaskier’s gaze. Happiness makes her eyes shine like topazes, and Jaskier grins at her, happy and carefree. Her joy is contagious, and his chest feel suddenly too tight to contain all the feelings in his heart, the triumph, happiness, and love.

“There’s no need,” Geralt replies gruffly, and Jaskier nods.

“Still,” she insists, “if you _ever_ need me…”

Geralt’s face softens at her promise – another human to stick up for him, how unusual. Jaskier looks at him fondly, fighting the sudden urge to hug his Witcher, to touch him, to lace their fingers together. (They were free, free, free, free… and they were together.)

“Right, before I forget.” Yennefer pulls a richly-adorned powder box out of her pocket and Jaskier wonders for a moment how much stuff she has in there. “This is a Xenovox. It’ll allow you to contact me. Don’t lose it.”

Gingerly, Ana takes the silver box, scrutinising it, then looks up at the sorceress, her gaze open and honest. “Thank you, Yennefer of Vengerberg.”

The sorceress smiles. “A word of advice, girl. Most men will under-estimate you wherever you go, and if you play this right, you can just walk all over your opponents, negotiate favourable treaties without them even noticing.”

Ana’s answering smile is almost wicked. “I’ll remember that.” Jaskier chuckles and her gaze snaps to him. “This is good-bye.”

The bard nods. “Yes, I suppose it’s better if we leave Tretogor as fast as we possibly can.”

The princess looks a little sad at that, but then she straightens. “I suppose you’re right.” Her hazel eyes wander to Geralt, looking at him without disgust or fear. “Take care of him, Geralt of Rivia.”

“I will,” the Witcher replies softly, and warmth fills Jaskier’s chest – that almost sounded like he _meant_ it. “Take care of that Countess of yours.”

Ana blushes furiously and Jaskier’s mouth falls open. “Countess? What Countess?” He looks from Geralt to Ana in astonishment, searching their faces for clues. “What did I miss?”

A faint smile tugs at Geralt’s lips, and Ana’s answering smile is almost conspiratorially. When did that happen?

Yennefer snorts. “If you want me to give you a hand in your escape, we better get going. There are probably assassins on the way already.”

“Probably,” Geralt agrees. “But I need to get Roach.”

“And my stuff…” Jaskier begins, but then clamps his mouth shut. It was only an empty lute case and some clothes – nothing vitally important. “Doesn’t matter.”

Yennefer’s purple eyes are almost gentle, like the sky after sunset. “I’ve got your bags already. I went to your rooms first.”

“Oh.” Jaskier doesn’t know what to say to that, so he just nods. This was sort of… nice of her. Since when was the scary sorceress this nice to him? This adventure really changed all of them; first, Geralt makes weird promises that seem a little too good to be true, and now Yennefer appears to _care_.

What a strange and beautiful world.

“Stables then.” The sorceress nods one last time at Ana, then throws a portal open and steps through. Geralt follows her without a look back.

The scent of hay and horses wafts through the tower, and, to Jaskier, it smells like freedom.

“Be brave, Princess,” the bard says, giving her one last slightly sad smile – because, if all goes well, they might never see each other again – before fleeing this cursed castle _forever_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One last chapter left!!! 
> 
> I hoped you enjoyed my BAMF Jaskier :)


	12. Farewell, until we meet again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yennefer and Geralt talk... sort of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to split the last chapter because I wanted to post today, but I didn't manage to edit everything, and I'm still not totally happy with this, but here we go...
> 
> Sountrack recomendation: The Great Cleansing - The Witcher OST

“Where to now?” Yennefer asks when Geralt has finished saddling Roach and threatening the stable boys to bring him his saddle bags. She placed a shield at the entrance of the stable, but no guards come running – _yet_.

“We could go to Lettenhove,” Jaskier suggests, caressing his lute case with one hand the way Geralt caresses Roach. “Nobody will look for us there.”

“Hm,” Geralt grunts, grabbing Roach’s reins and leading her out of her comfortable box. The chestnut mare snorts, content to be back with her Witcher. “Too close to here.”

Jaskier looks down at his feet, and Yennefer suppresses the sympathy that threatens to overcome her at his sad look. His performance had been excellent at the tower, self-confident and powerful, but now, clutching his lute case, he looks… _lost_. This sadness, darkness, lostness, almost swallows him, and the worst thing about it is the way it seems like a default, always underneath, and all his other expressions are just an array of masks he uses to cover it up.

“Sure,” he says in a small voice, and even Geralt seems to notice his subdued mood, giving him a questioning look that the bard doesn’t even notice. “Then, I’ll just…” He looks up, trying desperately to smile at Geralt and failing spectacularly. It almost hurts to look at him. “I’ll just go alone then.”

Geralt seems taken aback, blinking at Jaskier.

“And you two,” Jaskier turns his insincere smile to Yennefer, and she almost flinches, “can go somewhere else.”

Yennefer lifts one elegant eyebrow. Why would she go anywhere with the Witcher? The last time she checked she was still mad at him.

“Hm,” Geralt hums. “Or you could go to the coast with me.”

Jaskier’s mouth falls open, and he stares at Geralt as if he made him a declaration of love. Maybe he had.

“The coast, then,” Yennefer throws in before the two can start snogging. She doesn’t want to stay here in this viper nest any longer than necessary. “Temeria is nice this time of year.”

She reaches for her chaos and opens a portal. Roach stamps nervously and a few of the horses neigh. Without looking at the two men, she walks through but waits until they’ve followed her before closing the portal again.

A salty breeze blows her black hair in her face, and she quickly pushes it back behind her ear. Seagulls are calling to each other and the gentle crash of waves could be heard from not very far away. They are near a small seaside town that Yennefer only knows because a plant she needs for one of her potions grows here. It’s isolated and quite idyllic, if she remembered correctly. A few fishers that don’t care about the rest of the world.

It might be the break Jaskier needs.

“Where are we?” Jaskier asks, letting his gaze wander over the high grass that goes up their hips and covers the whole area up to the beach. A silver wind passes through it, and a seabird flies off.

Yennefer shrugs. “Temeria.” Glancing quickly at Geralt, she adds, “Not far from Cintra.”

Geralt stiffens slightly but gives no other indication that he heard her.

“The village isn’t big, but I remember the inn being quite hospitable. They get quite a few merchants wanting to buy seashells, fish, and salt.” The sorceress nods at the village that lies spread out over the tip of land reaching into the ocean. It looks a little like people just randomly started building houses. There’re no streets, just footpaths between the houses, and a big marketplace in the centre.

“Hm,” Geralt grunts, not even turning to look at the village. Instead, he eyes _her_ , a strange expression on his face.

Suddenly, Yennefer wants to run far, far away, but, at the same time, she feels the need to stay close, to talk, to touch.

When she looks at him now, blood covered and tired, she realises that he could’ve _died_. The guards could’ve killed him. And the last thing she’d said to him would’ve been a lie. (‘I’m not in love with you.’ – She isn’t, is she?) And maybe, maybe, she understands a little how he felt in Rinde, watching her fight the djinn.

Jaskier clears his throat. “Um… then, I’ll go… looking for the… the inn.” His eyes travel between Geralt and Yennefer, but neither of them acknowledges him. “Yes, um, you two talk, and then… I’ll… I’ll order you a bath, Geralt.”

He waits a moment longer, but, when the Witcher doesn’t reply, he huffs, turning on his heels and marching towards the village. His footsteps fade in the distance, and still neither she nor Geralt say anything.

The Witcher’s eyes seem unnaturally bright in the golden afternoon glow, and she feels drawn to him again. A part of her wants to check that all the blood is really from his enemies and not him. Her hands want to wander over his body, her mouth want to find his lips, his throat, the sensitive spot under his jaw. But she doesn’t move, and neither does he.

“I know you saved my life,” Yennefer finally admits when the silence becomes too much. “But I still don’t like how you did it,” she adds quickly before he could get any ideas.

Geralt shifts, sand crunching under his feet. “Yen…” He hesitates. “It was nice what you did for the princess.”

She shrugs. Suddenly, she’s so tired. She portalled to so many places today that it exhausted her.

“Are you all right?” Geralt asks, making a step towards her, but she holds up her hand to stop him.

“Fine.”

“Hm,” Geralt says, unconvinced.

A fresh breeze makes Yennefer shiver, and she turns to look towards the ocean. There are a few white clouds on the blue sky, almost too picturesque, fluffy and sheep-like. Seagulls ride the wind, then dive, and appear a moment later with something silvery and small in their beak.

“There’s larkspur and calendula growing over there,” she finally says, pointing in the direction of the area where she’d found them.

“Hm,” Geralt hums.

“Do you want me to show you?” she asks, and it’s as much a peace offering as she can muster. She hasn’t forgiven him yet, and she might not for a while – but she accepts what he’s done, accepts that it was born out of kindness.

Geralt walks up to her, Roach trailing behind, and it’s all the answer she needs. Slowly, they walk through the high grass that is parting beneath their steps like a crowd in front of a king.

The sun is low in the sky when they finally reach the fertile patch of ground where many flowers bloom. A little stream is flowing through it, barely a metre wide, and Yennefer guesses that they’d find the ocean following it. Geralt kneels down at the water, washing the worst of the blood off his hands and face while Roach drinks peacefully beside him.

Yennefer sits down on a rock, watching them.

“You were right about my Child Surprise,” Geralt announces suddenly, and she hears what he doesn’t say – _I’m sorry for what I said on the mountain. You wouldn’t be a bad mother._ – but before she can acknowledge it, he adds, “I’ll go to Cintra when Jaskier’s better. A war’s brewing in the South.”

The sorceress nods, struggling with the emotions that bloom in her chest at his apology. “The brotherhood will meet because of that as well.”

Roach stamps into the riverbank, and Geralt curses under his breath as a splash of water hits him.

“I cannot give up,” she whispers after a moment. “Not yet.”

The Witcher looks up at her, at the hand that rests on her stomach, and sighs. His hair is mostly blood-free now, and only a few strands appear slightly orange.

“Why?” he asks, and she hears the many questions in his voice. _Why are you here? Why do you say the things you do? Why am I not enough?_

Yennefer shakes her head. She has no answers to his questions.

Geralt sighs, walking over to her and sitting down beside her. Companionable silence stretches between them. Yennefer is too tired right now to be angry at him and, if she’s being honest, she quite likes this moment.

It might be long time until they’d see each other again.

She will not look for him, and he will let her go for now – until destiny throws them at each other, intertwines their paths.

They sit like that until it is dark, silently watching Roach grazing, soaking up the peace, enjoying each other’s presence. Yennefer’s muscles are stiff and cold and her eyelids droop, and she’s not sure what to do now. She’s too tired to portal all the way to where her tent is, but she also doesn’t want to go to the inn.

“You should go,” the sorceress murmurs finally. “The bard is waiting.”

Geralt grimaces slightly. “Tomorrow your scent will have faded.”

“But only temporarily,” she breathes and his head snaps up towards her. She can see the question so clearly in his golden eyes, the almost desperate hope that it’s not a goodbye forever. Yennefer smiles gently in return.

The lines in Geralt’s face soften when he understands and his breathing becomes a little easier; he doesn’t smile exactly, but there’s a lightness to his expression that is almost a smile.

He nods, stands up, and walks over to Roach. “Here.” He throws her his bedroll and some smoked meat in a tin.

Silently, she lifts her eyebrows at him.

“You look tired,” Geralt says by way of explanation. She _is_ tired, exhausted actually, an exhaustion that clouds her thoughts and softens her urge to prove her independence from him.

So she nods in acceptance. “Thank you, Geralt. I’ll leave it at the inn in the morning.”

He grunts something inarticulate, grabbing Roach’s reins, but he isn’t leaving. Instead, he stares at her, as if committing her image to his memory, as if he could look into the depths of her soul and couldn’t get enough of what he found, and, suddenly, Yennefer understands something. He never meant _her_ with his words about feelings and love – he meant _himself_. Geralt told her he loved her, and she brushed it off, thought he was trying to manipulate her again when he was being honest.

Something about that calms the rage that always simmers deep in her heart, ready to explode at the tiniest spark, ready to consume. It is not forgiveness, not yet – but it might be one day.

Yennefer still doesn’t trust these feelings, these unwanted desires – even if part of them is real – and she needs space right now to figure things out, to figure out what pleases her.

“Go,” she repeats, more insistent, because she knows Jaskier is waiting for him. The bard needs him, needs him like Yennefer could never acknowledge she does, and Geralt needs the bard, a need that Yennefer could never fulfil – and that’s fine.

The Witcher’s golden eyes darken, still reluctant to leave.

“I’m not the one you have to worry about,” the sorceress whispers, hoping he’ll hear the words she can’t say – _I’ll be at your side forever, even if I’m mad at you. But Jaskier won’t._ “He’s the hardest goodbye that you’ll ever have to say.”

Grief flickers over Geralt’s face, telling her that he knows, that it’s at the back his mind every time he looks at the human bard. One day, Jaskier will die. One day, time and age will catch up to him, or a monster, and his life will be snuffed out like a candle, leaving darkness in its wake. And there’s nothing Geralt can do about it.

“Then _go_ ,” she says firmly.

Finally, Geralt straightens, opens his mouth, as if to say something, but then he just turns and walks away. He doesn’t look back.

Yennefer curls up on his bedroll, allowing herself to enjoy his scent, the lingering warmth of his presence, allowing herself to miss him, to love him, just this once.

With a smile on her lips, she falls asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: larkspur is the German name for Jaskier (Rittersporn).
> 
> I hope you enjoyed their sort of reconciliation. The next chapter will be up tomorrow, and I promise you epicness :)


	13. Every promise and lie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier returns to the inn, but Geralt doesn't come. So he waits and waits and waits while a tiny voice inside him whispers that Geralt won't come, that he's been abandoned again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here were are - the last chapter. I can't believe it. I hope you'll enjoy this angsty, fluffy piece of storytelling.  
> (And I'm sorry for any mistakes. I'm not a native.)

Jaskier’s legs are heavy when he reaches the village. He feels like every step away from Geralt is a step too far. Something in his chest aches, tugging him, pulling him back towards the Witcher. He wants to fall to his knees before him and beg him not to leave, not to stay with Yennefer, but, instead, he forces himself to move forward.

The inn is small but clean and smelling slightly of fish and ale. It’s still early evening, and only a few patrons sit around a table, playing Gwent. Suddenly, Jaskier’s thankful that Yennefer stole his stuff from their room in Tretogor since he has at least enough money to pay for a room, two dinners and a bath.

The innkeeper eyes him curiously, raising a questioning eyebrow at his lute case, which goes straight into Jaskier’s heart like a rusty knife, but she says nothing. (Can she see how fragile he is right now? He feels like he’s made out of glass and a single request for a song would shatter him.) Jaskier almost cries right there and then. The weight of the lute case is so utterly wrong in his hands. He can still hear the sound that his beautiful instrument made when it was dismembered, piece by piece, the snapping strings, the splintering wood.

With heavy feet, he drags himself upstairs. The victorious feeling that engulfed him when King Vizimir signed the contract is gone, left behind with Geralt and Yennefer. First, the Witcher offers to go to the coast with him – clearly an apology for how he dismissed the idea before, for the words he threw at him, for not protecting him better in Tretogor – but then, he ignores Jaskier completely and stares at the sorceress with such _longing_ that it makes Jaskier sick to the stomach. Why did Geralt suggest it when he so clearly doesn’t want to spend another minute in Jaskier’s company?

_Stop it,_ he tells his darkness, _they’re just talking. Geralt will come._

Jaskier’s coin was enough to rent the bigger bedroom clearly designed for couples, judging by the size of the bed, but not enough for two (not that he wanted two). There’s a desk in front of the window and a small fire in the hearth, clearly lit in a hurry, so Jaskier puts another log in as he sets the lute case down beside it. Over the bed hangs an old painting of a dark ship on the grey sea, slate-coloured clouds covering the sky. For a moment, Jaskier stares at it, wondering why they chose to hang the picture of a boat when the guests could simply look out of the window if they wanted to see one – and such a depressive picture at that. Jaskier can basically _feel_ the wind tearing at the sails, the dangerous rocking of the waves against the hull, and taste the salty spray on his lips.

_The waves made of fingers and the madness that lingers  
Rips into the bark of our bones  
  
And let the sea birds cry  
I’ll let the sea birds cry_

Quickly, Jaskier tears himself away before the lyrics become too dark – because he feels the darkness lingering at the edge of his mind, waiting, waiting, waiting for the right moment to overpower and consume him. He can’t lose faith just yet (not yet, not yet, not yet). Geralt is surely on his way.

Maybe he should start on a song about their adventure, Jaskier thinks; maybe that’ll take his mind off things. Yes, a song to immortalise their victory, so that all of Redania would constantly remind its king of the threats waiting to fulfilled. Determined, Jaskier sits down on the creaky old chair, grabs his quill and parchment, and…

the words don’t come.

A drop of black ink lands on the parchment, sullying the cream shade. The afternoon sun slants through the window, bathing the room in a golden light, and the salty breeze is refreshing, so much better than the city air of Tretogor. Jaskier should be happy. He’s free of the king’s threats. More even, he’s at the coast with his very best friend in the whole wide world.

It’s just…

Geralt isn’t here.

The young man stands up and looks out of the window, cursing the view on the ocean – vast and blue, with a few small fishing boats fighting the tide. He can neither see the stables nor the path leading up to the village.

Suddenly, it knocks and his heart leaps to his throat, but it’s only the dinner tray. Jaskier sets it down on the table, staring at the fish dish. His stomach grumbles, but he can’t bring himself to take a bite.

He wanted to share this meal with Geralt.

Instead, he forces himself to scribble down a few lines for the song he wants to compose for the king. The words come slowly, the tune even slower, but finally he finishes a part of it that might be the chorus.

_Think of all the horrors that I_ _  
Promised you I’d bring  
I promise you, they’ll sing of every  
Time you passed your fingers through my hair and called me child  
Witness me, old man, I am the Wild  
  
_

The dinner is cold by now.

Jaskier pushes it aside and stands up to look outside again. The sun is setting, and the view is probably breathtaking, the horizon that perfect sunset shade of red, the waves glimmering golden, but Jaskier can’t see any it.

_Where_ the fuck is Geralt?

Maybe, the innkeeper didn’t let him in with all the blood and he’s still with Roach.

Hopeless hope blooms in his chest as he walks down the stairs and to the stables, but there’s only the innkeepers old, white mare, munching hay. Disappointment hits Jaskier like a punch in the stomach.

Geralt didn’t come.

Maybe Geralt _won’t_ come.

Maybe he’s simply still talking with Yennefer. By Melitele, those two have _a lot_ to work out. He shouldn’t lose faith just yet (not yet, not yet, not...).

The room feels empty when Jaskier enters, and the merry fire does nothing to chase away the cold that has seeped into his bones. Someone has brought hot water and a wooden tub while he was downstairs, and Jaskier stares at it, at the curling steam over the surface, the promise of warmth and relaxation… and turns away.

Geralt could simply leave. Jaskier wouldn’t even notice. He’s with Roach, he has all his stuff, his lover is with him… why would he need Jaskier? – Desperate, pathetic Jaskier who is not even a full bard anymore without his lute.

Maybe the Witcher only said all those words, those beautiful words, because of the situation, because he wanted Jaskier to shut up.

_You are that space that’s in between every page, every chord and every screen_ _  
You are the driftwood and the rift, you’re the words that I promise I don’t mean_

No! Geralt wouldn’t … didn’t…

Jaskier walks to the bath and hangs his hand in the cooling water. He wants so badly to get rid of the clothes the king has given him, the Lettenhove colours that feel so wrong, so dull. But Jaskier can’t bring himself to move.

He silently watches the bath turn cold while he grows colder inside.

He ordered this bath for Geralt, and Geralt…

will come.

Won’t he?

What if the Witcher just waited for the first chance to abandon him again? Without a word. Simply gone. Like a ghost, like he’s never been there. Like Tretogor never happened at all.

( _Don’t lose faith. Not yet_ , he reminds himself.)

Hastily, Jaskier stands up, determined to use the last of the faint daylight to work on the song. And, this time, the lyrics flow, but they are for a different song.

_Remember me I ask, remember me I sing_ _  
__Give me back my heart you wingless thing  
  
Day by day, oh lord, three things I pray  
That I might understand as best I can  
How bold I was, could be - will be - still am, by god still am  
  
Fret not dear heart, let not them hear  
The mutterings of all your fears, the fluttering of all your wings  
  
Remember me, Remember me, Remember me, Remember me  
Remember me I ask. Remember me I sing  
  
_

Jaskier pauses, looking down on the quickly scribbled words, barely readable.

It’s pitch black outside, and only the orange glow of the hearth and a lonely candle provide him with light. And Jaskier knows in his heart that Geralt is _gone_.

His fingers are numb as he dips the quill into the ink again, some strange compulsion tempting him to write it all down – the pain, the pain of abandonment, the pain he feels every time the Witcher leaves – because writing down will make it better, will make it okay.

(He knows deep down in his heart that it won’t.)

_Love hurts...  
But sometimes it's a good hurt  
And it feels like I’m ~~alive.~~_

Clenching his teeth, Jaskier scratches out the last word. He doesn’t feel alive. He feels cold, so fucking cold. Thinking for a second, he crosses out the rest of it.

_Love hurts...  
 ~~But sometimes it's a good hurt  
And it feels like I’malive.~~_

That’s all there is to it. He just can’t do this anymore. He can’t.

Shivering as if it were winter, Jaskier stumbles over to the bed. He curls up under the too thin covers, pulling them over his head to keep every bit of warmth inside. However, the linen is cool under his touch and the mattress seems to suck away all his warmth, giving nothing back. He’s so cold, so cold, so cold.

Why did Geralt leave? Has Jaskier not deserved a goodbye?

_“I promise you I’ll be better_ _  
I promise you I’ll try  
But like rubbing wine stains into rugs it’s my curse  
To try and make it right, but by trying make it worse.”_

Jaskier whispers the lyrics into the pillow, too tired to get up again and write them down. It’s in vain anyway. This is not a song he’ll ever sing. Bards make money with heroic tales not with failure.

And Jaskier is a failure.

He could only keep Geralt while he was physically chained to him. How pathetic was that?

A sob escapes Jaskier’s throat, then another. Tears burn hot in his eyes and taste salty on his lips, and he just wants Geralt to come back, to come to the room and hug him – or even just climb into the tub without a word – to just _be_ here. That would be enough.

But the room is empty and hollow and so silent, a silence that suffocates.

So Jaskier sings, sings a song he wrote a long time ago, unfinished, sings the monsters hiding in the silence away:

_“‘It’s not fair, it’s not fair how much I love you  
It’s not fair, 'cause you make me laugh when I’m actually really fucking cross at you for something,’  
And he’ll say  
‘Oh how, oh how unreasonable  
How unreasonably in love I am with everything you do  
I spend my days so close to you…’”_

Jaskier swallows, hating how well he still remembers the words, even though he’s never sung the song to an audience. The next verse just flows over his lips, broken up by sobs, his voice weak and husky, but he can’t stop.

“‘ _I’ve seen enough,’ he says, ‘I know exactly what I want  
And it’s this life that we’ve created  
Inundated with the fated thought of you  
And if you asked me to, if you asked me I would lose it all  
Like petals in a storm  
'Cause darling I was born to press my head between your shoulder blades –”_

His voice cracks at that, but he forces himself to continue, more a hoarse whisper than a song, his voice barely louder that the gentle sounds of waves greeting the beach.

_“… at night when light is fading.  
Melitele, you’ll be the death of me.  
It’s not fair, it's not fair how much I love you  
It’s not fair 'cause you make me ache, you bastard –”_

His voice breaks again, and this time he doesn’t continue. There’s no strength left in him.

***

Jaskier must have fallen asleep because suddenly he hears a peculiar sound that hasn’t been there before… almost like the splashing of water.

Instantly, his body stiffens, expecting the icy shock of freezing water, and he draws in a breath, anticipating the cold pain that would drive all air out of his lungs, and he presses his eyes shut, and…

nothing happens.

Then, there is the sound again, accompanied by the soft hum of a human voice, and Jaskier bolts upright, part of his mind screaming _intruder_ while the other part already knows who he’s going to find but not daring to believe it yet.

And there he is – bathed in the orange glow of the fire, hair as white as moonlight and eyes golden like the sun, half-wrapped in a towel, his glorious muscles playing under clean skin, stands Geralt, like he’s always been here, like it’s where he’s supposed to be.

Jaskier blinks, and blinks again. But the image stays the same.

“Sorry I woke you,” Geralt murmurs, his wet hair leaving gleaming drops all over his broad shoulders, and his eyes are soft and warm.

Of all the things to be sorry for, he’s sorry for _that_. Ridiculous Witcher. Jaskier half-laughs-half-sobs. He’s rather mad actually that Geralt didn’t wake him sooner because _he_ ’d wanted to be the one to wash the blood out of his hair.

And then it hits him with a force leaves him breathless.

_Geralt is here._

That… that… means he came back for Jaskier.

A powerful emotion breaks out of Jaskier’s throat, something too close to a sob, and his fingers curl into the blanket to not be swept away by almost violent relief. Tears burn in his eyes, and he can’t believe he’s crying _again_ , but his emotions are all over the place. Confusion and relief all mixed up with the lingering grief and triumph and hatred of the last days.

“Jaskier?” Geralt sounds strangely upset, and suddenly, the Witcher is right in front of him, kneeling on the bed. Unconsciously, Jaskier leans forward, soaking up the clean scent of him, his hands reaching forward all by themselves until they find damp skin –

and, oh gods, Geralt is _real_. He’s here.

The bard becomes aware that he’s babbling, half-formed sentences, words, a name, over and over, and he forces his mouth shut, pressing one hand over his lips.

“What’s wrong?” Geralt asks, his eyes searching Jaskier’s body for something… a wound, no doubt.

Jaskier shakes his head vigorously because he probably already said too much, blinking quickly to free his lashes from the last remnants of tears. One of his hands still lingers on Geralt’s triceps and he pulls it back, even though it physically hurts to lose his touch.

“Why are you still wearing that?” Geralt’s hand indicates a sweeping motion encompassing Jaskier’s outfit, and the bard looks down on himself.

There’s blood on the grey and blue doublet, just a few drops at the cuff, but it feels like they’re burning into his skin like acid, and Jaskier tugs at the buttons, almost panic-stricken, desperate to get the dreadful piece of clothing off himself.

“Jaskier.”

The buttons are just so fucking small, and he tugs and tugs and –

“Jaskier.” Suddenly, there are warm hands around his, holding them, stilling them. “Breathe,” the Witcher says, drawing in a deep breath and releasing it slowly.

The bard draws in a shaky, shallow breath, trying to remember the breathing technique he learned in Oxenfurt, but he can’t. His control over his body, his emotions, has completely vanished, and he feels like child in Geralt arms, helpless and desperate, wanting to be held.

“Off, off, off… fuck, _please_ , I can’t…” he begs incoherently, ripping at the collar with one hand because it’s too tight and he can’t fucking _breathe_.

“Sh,” the Witcher hums softly.

Suddenly, there’s a ripping noise and the tinkling of buttons hitting the floor. Geralt tugs the doublet and chemise off him, and Jaskier fumbles with his breeches, kicking them and the ruined socks off his legs, wishing he had the strength to tear them.

“Do you want a bath?” Geralt asks, and Jaskier doesn’t know what to do with the softness in the Witcher’s voice, with the care and worry in his golden eyes.

Jaskier does – but he also doesn’t. He wants to stay close to Geralt, make sure the Witcher doesn’t disappear all of a sudden. So he shakes his head, curling into a tight ball because the cold is back. He’s just in his smallclothes, and there’s so much exposed skin, vulnerable to the night’s chill, and he’s still afraid Geralt would just stand up and _leave_ …

“Jaskier, please talk to me,” Geralt says quietly. “I don’t know what to do when you’re so silent.”

The bard huffs a laugh, but it sounds wrong in his ears, hysterical. “That’s a first, Witcher. Normally, my talking annoys you.”

“Jaskier…” Geralt sighs and Jaskier doesn’t quite understand his tone, something like tired exasperation but not quite. “Does your back still hurt?” he asks then, changing the topic effortlessly.

“Um…” Jaskier stalls. It does hurt – very much, in fact – but he already cried in front of the Witcher and he doesn’t want to admit another weakness.

“There’s still some salve from the healer left,” Geralt adds, an almost pleading look in his sunlight eyes. “I could…” He doesn’t finish his offer, but Jaskier knows what he wants to say, still reading Geralt’s half-sentences with ease.

The Witcher’s hands on his back, soft and caring… it’s almost too much, too much to want, too much to expect – but he offered, didn’t he?

So…

As answer, Jaskier lies down on his stomach, his feet securely under the warm covers, his back exposed. He feels vulnerable, more vulnerable than he’s ever felt in this position, and finally he understands how much trust it costs Geralt to let him help caring for his injuries.

Geralt shifts next to him and the bed dips as he moves a little closer. Jaskier hears the opening of a jar and the smell of the salve hits him, catapulting him back to the last evening, and he presses his eyes shut.

But he’s not in Tretogor anymore. He’s safe. Safe with his Witcher.

“May I?” Geralt checks in with him softly.

“Please,” Jaskier replies, his voice husky, his muscles iron-stiff. But then Geralt’s fingertips trace over his skin so softly that it’s almost a caress, so warm that Jaskier wishes the Witcher would cover his whole back with his hands, and he whimpers into the pillow, trying to stop himself from leaning into the touch. Geralt’s knee touches his hip, a hot spot through the linen, and Jaskier shuffles closer, just a little bit.

The Witcher works his way over his back, and, little by little, Jaskier’s muscles relax. The pain gives way to a numb tingling, and he sighs in contentment.

Without warning, Geralt’s touch is gone, but only for a moment as he places the jar back in the bags and replaces the towel with smallclothes. Not that Jaskier is watching him or anything.

Then, Geralt is back and Jaskier shifts tiredly to allow him some space. He longs for the Witcher’s touch, for skin on skin, for his body warmth, for that scent that is unmistakably Geralt, with a desperation that is almost ridiculous.

“One bed?” Geralt asks, his eyebrows raised in amusement. The bed is big enough for two, clearly designed for couples – they’ve slept in smaller beds.

“Not enough coin,” Jaskier replies, which is entirely true this time – no hidden agenda. _Really_.

Well, okay, he’d hoped to snuggle up with Geralt, to be held, to be close. Pitiful, he knows.

The Witcher pauses. “Do you want me to…?” he breaks off and gestures to the floor.

“Gods, no!” Jaskier says quickly, way too quickly, reaching with one arm for Geralt, and thankfully, the Witcher complies, lying down next to the bard, his heat palpable even with an inch of space between them.

Instantly, Jaskier turns, moving closer until they lie chest to chest, Jaskier’s head resting on Geralt’s arm, his nose buried in the hollow of his throat, his left arm thrown over the other man’s waist, pressing him closer, and _closer_ still. He knows they don’t sleep like this, not even outside in the cold, but he can’t help himself.

Geralt knows how he feels anyway, has probably smelled it a thousand times before – so why hide any longer?

And still, it’s not close enough; every inch of his skin is desperate to be touched, yearning for warmth, for Geralt, that it’s almost painful.

There’s still a little bit of space between them, and Geralt’s other arm is hovering over Jaskier’s body, as if afraid to return the embrace, and he can’t have that. He makes a desperate whining noise, trying to shuffle even closer until they touch everywhere, until he doesn’t know anymore where his body ends and Geralt’s begins. Skin to skin, heart to heart.

The Witcher sighs, pulling the cover up to his shoulders and finally wrapping his arm around Jaskier, and Jaskier clings even closer. Geralt smells so fucking good, so safe, that he almost cries again. He breathes in deeply, wishing for the ability to smell emotions – was Geralt okay with this? Was he happy? Did he feel that melting sensation in his chest that Jaskier was feeling? Did he feel as vulnerable as he, Geralt with his throat bared to Jaskier’s teeth and Jaskier with his heart bared to Geralt?

The bard almost – _almost_ – presses a kiss to the soft skin of the Witcher’s neck. No scars here. But that’d be a terrible idea. No need to push his luck.

Instead, he snuggles even closer, his leg shoved in between Geralt’s, his fingers digging into the Witcher’s back.

“Sh,” Geralt hums lowly, his thumb brushing soothingly over Jaskier’s shoulder blades. “I’ve got you.”

And now it’s Jaskier’s turn to hum. His tongue is too heavy for words, his limbs heavy with relaxation and warmth, and Geralt holds him like he’ll never let him go – and maybe he won’t. At least not until tomorrow.

And, suddenly, he’s _exhausted_ , the whirlwind of emotions, the stress of the last days, the trauma and the pain, all catching up with him, pulling him down… and he lets go, sinks into dreamless sleep.

Because Geralt is here.

***

It’s not quite morning when Jaskier half-wakes again. He’s not sure why. A log on the fire may have shifted or a bird called outside. His subconscious is still watching out for any signs of danger, even with the Witcher at his back.

Jaskier has turned in his sleep and is now spooned by Geralt, his back wrapped in glorious warmth, so protected. His fingers are intertwined with Geralt’s, and he knows the Witcher is awake because he rubs soothing circles over Jaskier’s knuckles.

The bard sighs contently, sinking back to sleep, when he suddenly feels the oddest sensation at the bend of his neck, warm and gentle and a little moist, almost like… a kiss.

What the…?

Geralt is trailing the softest of kisses from beneath his ears to his shoulders, like petals made out of love, and his silver hair tickles Jaskier’s collarbones, and…

This cannot be happening.

Instantly, Jaskier goes as stiff as a board, his heart in his throat, and Geralt stops.

“Hm?” he questions quietly.

“What are you doing?” Jaskier whispers, voice rough with sleep and more vulnerable than he liked. He shifts to look at the Witcher because that couldn’t… why would Geralt _kiss_ him while he was sleeping? That makes only insofar sense that it absolutely doesn’t.

Geralt sucks in a breath. At once, his touch is gone, so quickly that Jaskier didn’t even have time to react. The air is freezing without the Witcher at his back, and it hurts almost as much as the rejection.

Jaskier curses himself. Why did he have to question everything? Why couldn’t he just for _once_ in his fucking life enjoy something Geralt is freely giving to him?

Hastily, he turns around, one hand reaching for the Witcher, a noise of protest in his throat. But the bed is empty.

Still blinking sleep away, Jaskier needs a moment to find his friend almost at the other side of the room, as far away from the bed as possible, and the expression on his face twists something in Jaskier’s chest. What did he do?

“Darling?” Quickly, he sits up, feet touching the rough wooden floorboards.

“I’m sorry,” the Witcher rasps. “I thought you… I shouldn’t have assumed… I…” he breaks off and there’s genuine pain in those golden eyes.

Jaskier frowns, not entirely sure what he’s talking about. He more than anything wants to wipe this look from Geralt’s face, but he’s not sure what’s causing it. Finally, he settles on, “You did nothing wrong, dear heart.”

“But you…” Geralt bites his lip, staring at the floor.

“I what?” Jaskier questions, slowly standing up and walking over to the Witcher, suddenly stone-cold sober and wide awake. Geralt tenses the nearer he comes, and Jaskier hates it.

Geralt refuses to meet his gaze when he answers, “You smelled… scared.”

“Oh.” Jaskier almost laughs with relief, but he knows Geralt would take it the wrong way. The Witcher is absolutely right – he _is_ scared, due to so many confusing reasons that Jaskier can’t possibly name them all, but, most importantly, he’s scared because he doesn’t for the life of him understand what that kiss _means_. It makes him feel vulnerable and exposed, even more vulnerable than when he bared his back to the Witcher – because Geralt ripped his heart out once, and he will _not_ let that happen again.

Jaskier has learned his lessons in that regard.

But he’s not scared for the reasons that Geralt undoubtedly assumes. He can basically see the black tendrils of guilt devouring Geralt’s mind, but then the Witcher looks at him, his golden eyes are guarded. Geralt _never_ looks at him this way – this is how he looks at the humans who throw insults at him, who fear and distrust him, who chase him out of inns and towns – he looks like he expects Jaskier to do just that, as if he’d pushed too far, and suddenly, the bard would turn on him.

How could Geralt think that after _everything_ they went through?

It almost makes Jaskier a little angry, if it weren’t for the fear that seeps through the cracks in Geralt’s mask – fear of rejection.

Determined, Jaskier makes another step forward, ignoring the way Geralt tenses even further, his muscles taut to the point of shaking. “I am _not_ scared of _you_ , Geralt,” he says firmly. “Do you hear me? I’m not scared of you, darling Witcher, never of you… _never_!”

Geralt’s eyes widen, but the tension doesn’t bleed from his shoulders, like he’s holding himself back from believing it. Idiot Witcher.

“You can hear a lie, Geralt. Am I lying?” Jaskier asks, carefully reaching out to touch Geralt’s shoulder, giving the Witcher time to draw away, but when he doesn’t, the bard steps even closer. His shoulders are so hard and tense under Jaskier’s fingers that it must be painful. He begins to rub slow circles over them, like his friend has done for him before, and the Witcher’s eyes flutter shut for a moment.

That’s all the reassurance Jaskier needs. Geralt’s reaction had nothing to do with him – it was just his stupid insecurities and decades of conditioning that made him react that way.

“Hm,” Geralt hums finally.

“I take that as a _no_ ,” Jaskier replies drily, leaning forward, so their foreheads touch and their breaths mingle. “I was just surprised, darling. That’s all.”

_Agonisingly_ slowly, the Witcher relaxes, the tension melting away under Jaskier’s touch, and his hands come up to gently cup Jaskier’s hips, not to hold him or trap but to repay the caress Jaskier is giving, to steady himself.

Jaskier closes his eyes, breathing in Geralt’s scent and lacing his other hand through his moon-white hair. He loves Geralt’s hair, so much fucking hair, and so soft – how did he manage to have such soft hair, even though he never really cares for it?

“Why were you surprised?” the Witcher whispers after a moment, and Jaskier draws away too look into his golden eyes. There’s a question there that he doesn’t fully understand.

Why _wouldn’t_ he be surprised might be the better question. Geralt was never affectionate, never touching him in any way that would indicate _more_ than a casual friendship – and kisses are far outside of what Jaskier has ever expected from their relationship.

“Well…” Jaskier stalls, for once at a loss. How should he explain the love he feels, a love that makes his chest so full and his skin ache for touch and his mouth yearn for kisses that are decidedly more heated than the ones from before? How should he explain that he still fears to be abandoned, to be left by Geralt, even though the Witcher assured him he’d never do it again? How should he explain how scared he is to do something wrong, to destroy this friendship they have, to push it into something burning and self-destructive?

“Why did you kiss me?” he asks then because that’s the crux of it.

A crease appears between Geralt’s eyebrows. “I told you, didn’t I?”

He did? Wait… he _did_?

Desperately, Jaskier searches his mind for an explanation, for anything the Witcher might have said that would mean… _this_. And he finds only one solution – the words said in Tretogor after his mental breakdown – but that can’t possibly…

“That you… _love_ me?” His voice is too high, almost breaking, and he digs his fingers into Geralt’s skin to hold himself upright because his knees feel like jelly, and his heart is beating too fast.

“But…” he starts to protest because Geralt loves him as a friend. A _friend_. He doesn’t love Jaskier the way Jaskier loves him. That’s simply not possible. Jaskier is nothing like Yennefer; he’s fragile and loud and loving too fast and too easily. Geralt couldn’t love him, not like this.

Geralt’s frown deepens, and he pushes a little at Jaskier’s hips, which the bard takes as cue and steps away, but the Witcher doesn’t let go, his arms outstretched to keep his hold on the bard. “What did you think I meant?” he asks slowly.

Jaskier gazes helplessly into the golden abyss of Geralt’s eyes that draw the truth out of him easily. “As… friends,” he admits barely audible, but Geralt hears him. The Witcher’s frown deepens, and then, abruptly, he does let go of Jaskier.

“Do you want us to be just friends?” he rasps.

_Ah_. Good question. “I never thought about that. I never thought I had a choice,” Jaskier answers honestly. “But… let me get this right. You say… you say you’re offering…” he bites his lip, “ _more_ than friendship?”

Geralt suddenly looks a little unsure, his gaze flying through the room, as if looking for an escape. “If you’d want me to. If you’d let me.”

“Let you?” Jaskier chokes out – he’d love to. Doesn’t Geralt know that?

They’re still dancing around each other, and, suddenly, he’s sick of it. There’s only one way to find out if this could be something more – and that is to throw himself headlong into whatever this is. So Jaskier _pounces_ , crashing into two-hundred pounds of Witcher, who actually staggers back, more by surprise than anything, until his back hits the wall; and Jaskier buries both his hands in Geralt’s glorious hair, pulling his head towards him but then, hesitates. He wants to give Geralt a choice, wants him to be able to stop this before Jaskier could make a mistake.

But the White Wolf rumbles deep in his throat – not threatening more desperate that Jaskier won’t kiss him already – and bridges the distance between their lips. Their first kiss is hungry and messy, with tongues and teeth and cheekbones, and so, so _good_. Geralt’s arms pull him closer and hold him upright when Jaskier melts into a puddle at his touch, and Jaskier traces his fingernails down Geralt’s neck, exploring his broad shoulders, and Geralt growls softly into his mouth when he finds a spot behind his ears, so Jaskier touches it again, smiling against the Witcher’s lips at the instant growling response.

Finally, Jaskier comes up for air, his lashes fluttering open, and Geralt’s eyes are almost completely black, golden irises swallowed by lust-blown pupils. _Oh_. Jaskier never thought he’d have this effect on the Witcher.

“Good?” Geralt asks carefully, his grip gentling, giving Jaskier the possibility to draw away – not that he wants to. He can’t imagine a situation when he wouldn’t want Geralt to hold him, to look at him like this.

“What do I smell like?” he asks with a smile, his fingers caressing the sensitive spot behind his ears, because he knows Geralt needs more reassurance than words. The Witcher trusts in actions, in things he can see and taste and smell. So he pushes the warm feeling in his chest to the forefront, the heat in his stomach, the bubbles of joy.

Geralt breathes in deeply like he’s savouring Jaskier’s scent, and his pupils dilate even more, as if Jaskier’s smell was his personal aphrodisiac. “Fuck, Jaskier,” he curses, and the bard chuckles because he sounds so fond and surprised and overwhelmed that it’s endearing and so, so sweet.

Suddenly, the world blurs around him and when it stills, Jaskier lies on the mattress, Geralt on top of him, his hands holding his body weight off him.

“You smell like happiness,” Geralt whispers directly into Jaskier’s ear and, suddenly, nibbles on said ear. Jaskier makes a surprised sound – not a squeak because bards don’t _squeak_ – and then, well, he squeaks when the Witcher continues to trail kisses down his throat. His skin is oversensitive, every touch too much and not enough at the same time.

“And lust,” the Witcher murmurs, his voice somehow getting lower, and Jaskier moans when suddenly there are _teeth_ – and yes, that seemed like a perfectly accurate assessment of his current emotional state, but he doesn’t quite know how to voice it other than tangling his fingers deeper into Geralt’s hair and letting himself be devoured by his wolf.

“And love,” the Witcher finishes and Jaskier’s eyes snap open to find his gaze, just to make sure that that is okay – and it seems that it is because Geralt smiles widely, happily, and continues to make little purring sounds when he worries another love bite into Jaskier’s chest, and the bard arches into him.

“Er… ja… that seems about… right…” Jaskier gasps, tugging at Geralt’s hair to get him to kiss him again, and the Witcher complies with a chuckle.

“So demanding,” he breathes between kisses, sounding amused and fond, and the last of the ice in Jaskier’s chest melts.

This is real. This is happening.

“You’re not a dream, are you?” he checks, just in case, and moans as Geralt’s thumb brushes over his nipple, running his hands over what feels like every inch of Jaskier’s skin.

“Hm,” Geralt says, joyfully exploring Jaskier’s body. “How you can still doubt me is beyond me.”

“I, ah… _fuck_ …I don’t…” Jaskier loses his train of thought under this onslaught of sensations, hot Witcher skin and cool kisses and – oh gods! – _fingernails_ , deciding to forget reason for now and embracing what Geralt’s offering with both hands. Shudders of pleasure and want run through him, and he clings to Geralt, completely losing himself in this _amazing_ feeling of Geralt’s hands and mouth and teeth on his body.

*

*

*

When Jaskier wakes again, the sun is high on the sky. It must be after noon. His limbs are heavy and he feels _deliciously_ sore and relaxed and warm. His head rests on Geralt’s chest in a way that he knows his neck will pay for later, but the slow, steady beat of the Witcher’s heart under his ear makes him deliriously happy because it means Geralt _is still here_.

Joy bubbles up in him like carbonic acid in champagne, and he laughs lowly, the sound muffled by Geralt’s chest.

“Hm?” the Witcher hums questioningly, his fingers tracing lazy patterns over Jaskier’s back, ever mindful of the still sensitive welts.

Jaskier turns his head to look up at him for a moment, warmed by the soft smile that still lingers in the corners of his mouth – a smile he doesn’t get to see often enough. His golden eyes twinkle amused.

“You’re here,” Jaskier replies, pressing a kiss to his chest because his lips are too far away at the moment.

Geralt hums again, as if to say _where else would I be?_

Where else, indeed.

Jaskier laughs again, and then he stretches up to kiss his Witcher properly. There will be days of darkness and cold again, but they are far away. Right now, everything is warm sunlight and moonlight-silver and amber-golden, and Jaskier is happier than he’s ever been.

THE END.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song lyrics:  
> King – The Amazing Devil  
> The Horror and the Wild – The Amazing Devil  
> Love Hurts – Incubus  
> Farewell Wanderlust – The Amazing Devil  
> Fair – The Amazing Devil
> 
> I enjoyed writing and posting this so fucking much. Thank you all you lovely people out there who made this such a great experience <3  
> I hope this chapter satisfied your expectations, even though it was more angsty than epic^^ If you have any ideas or requests of what I should add, let me know, and if inspiration hits me, I might make a series out of this.


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